The Cattleman Meets His Match. Sherri Shackelford
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up,” he ordered, watching them from the corner of his eye.
Tony, the most experienced of the group, effectively scurried into the saddle. John swung up behind Hazel and found the other three standing uncertainly beside their horses.
“Mount up,” he ordered again.
Sarah shifted and spread her hands. “Um. I don’t think I can.”
John paused and assessed the problem. The stirrup hit at her shoulder. Between the height of the saddle and her confining skirts, she was stuck. Why hadn’t he noticed before? Because I don’t usually ride out of a livery at midnight with a bunch of girls, that’s why, he reminded himself. Men, he understood. He’d been raised on a ranch full of men. Women, not so much.
“I’ll help.” John swung off his mount. He touched Hazel’s leg and met her questioning brown eyes. “Wait here and don’t wiggle too much.”
The little girl patted the horse’s neck. “What’s her name?”
“His name is Bullhead.”
“How come?”
“Because he’s bullheaded.”
“I don’t like that,” Hazel scowled. “I’ll call him Prince instead. I like that better.” She leaned forward and one of the horse’s ears swiveled in her direction. “You like that better, too, don’t you?”
The horse nickered, as though in approval. Hazel grinned triumphantly. “See? He likes his new name much better, don’t you, Prince?”
Another nicker. John rolled his eyes. “Whatever strikes your fancy.”
Not like the name was going to stick. She could call the horse Pretty Britches for all he cared. By tomorrow evening, he’d have Bullhead back.
A half smile at Hazel’s antics plastered on his face, he gave Darcy and Sarah a leg up, then paused before Moira. She’d reluctantly donned his coat, and the sleeves hung well below her fingertips. Her scent teased his senses and he searched for the elusive source. It was floral, and familiar, inspiring a sense of peace and well-being. He pictured a summer’s day, white moths fluttering above a field of bluebells, a gentle breeze whispering through the grass.
Peonies. That’s what had struck a chord. She smelled like peonies.
He lifted her hand and turned back the cuff, then repeated his action on the other side.
Keeping her eyes narrowed, she remained stubbornly quiet during his ministrations. John recalled what he’d stuffed in his pocket earlier. He reached out and Moira started. He stilled immediately, then moved more slowly, approaching her as he might a frightened animal—gradually, gently. She was as skittish as a newborn calf. Cautiously reaching into the pocket of his coat, he lifted his hand and revealed the rag doll he’d found earlier.
Moira’s face lit up. “That’s Hazel’s doll! Where did you find it?”
“In the mud beneath the window.”
She took the doll from him, cradling the soft material in her cupped hands. She glanced in the direction of Hazel and Bullhead—newly christened as Prince. The little girl murmured softly, petting its neck. Fascinated with the horse, she certainly wasn’t missing her lost doll.
Moira thoughtfully stroked the braided yarn, absently fingering the hand-sewn stitches. Her fingers moved reverently, lovingly, as though the fabric was silk instead of muslin.
Her rapt interest gave him pause. “Did you have a doll like that growing up?”
He didn’t know what had inspired his question, this wasn’t exactly the time or place for casual conversation.
She shook her head, her face melancholy. “No. I never had anything as fine as this.”
John choked off a laugh, certain she was fooling around. When her expression remained somber, he cleared his throat. “You should keep it safe. Until we’re back at camp.”
“She needs a bit of washing, that’s all. A little scrubbing and she’ll be good as new.”
“Of course.” He floundered. “She’ll be as bright as a brass button.”
Lost in a world he didn’t understand, Moira carefully wrapped the doll in a faded red handkerchief and gingerly replaced the bundle in the pocket of his jacket. For a moment the ground tilted on its axis and the world turned topsy-turvy. With Moira, the feelings sputtering in his chest were foreign, tossing him out of his element. This wide-eyed sprite carried a mixed bag of reactions. One minute she was chastising him, the next moment she was teary-eyed over a battered rag doll.
John shook his head. He’d never understand women. Not if he lived to be one hundred and ten years old.
“You ready?” he asked.
She nodded, then swiveled her head left and right, uncertain. She’d said she was a rider. She’d lied. Near as he could tell, she wasn’t sure which side to mount on—a basic skill of horsemanship. In deference to her novice ability, he grasped her around the waist and easily lifted her, surprised by her diminutive weight.
She was slight and delicate, vulnerable and threatening all at the same time. As she sheepishly attempted to cover her ankles, he averted his gaze. The self-conscious action sparked a burst of sorrow in his chest. Someone as proud and brave as Moira deserved a wardrobe full of new dresses that dusted the ground, like a well-heeled lady.
Quelling his wayward emotions, he turned away. To his enormous relief, the livery owner scuffled into the corral, splintering the tense moment.
The older man gestured toward the stables. “What am I supposed to do with that fellow in the stall?”
“Let him out when he wakes up,” John called over his shoulder. “You don’t know anything.”
“True enough,” the man replied. “True enough.”
Moira adjusted her feet in the stirrups and stared down at John. She must have discovered the starch in her spine while his back had been turned. She sat up straighter, her face a stern mask of disapproval. “You better not double-cross us, mister.”
The obvious rebuke in her voice triggered a long-forgotten memory. Years ago at a family wedding he’d joked with Ruth Ann, his on-again, off-again sweetheart, about getting married. She’d looked him straight in the eye, her disappointment in him painfully clear. “You’re too easygoing. I need someone who can take care of me.”
Ruth Ann had married his best friend instead. They had five kids and a pecan farm not far from the Elder ranch.
John had set out to prove himself, and so far he’d come up short. He couldn’t even take care of a herd of cows, let alone this vulnerable woman with her sorrowful, wounded eyes.
“I won’t double-cross you,” he replied evenly.
Moira’s fears weren’t unwarranted, just misdirected. He wasn’t a hero. There was no one riding to the rescue and the sooner he separated from this bunch the better. Before they found out they’d placed their fragile hopes on the wrong man.
There was something else going on here, and he wasn’t the man to sort it out.
A short time later Moira swung off her horse and pain lanced up her legs. She winced, hobbling a short distance. She’d ridden a handful of times before and understood the rudimentary skills, but she wasn’t nearly as confident as she’d let on.
She’d thought she’d fooled John Elder. The sympathy in his perceptive eyes had exposed her mistake. He’d known she was a fraud, and he’d been too polite to voice his observation. She’d paid the price for her bravado. With each step, her untried muscles screamed in protest. She unwittingly sank deeper into John Elder’s coat and inhaled its comforting scent.
Over