Maverick Wild. Stacey Kayne

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СКАЧАТЬ stopped short of taking a bite of greens. Cora Mae visibly stiffened.

      “You’re bound to have suitors,” said Tucker. “Single women don’t last long around these parts. If you’ve a mind to marry—”

      “Certainly not,” Cora Mae answered with a speed and sternness that put instant frowns on the men, and nearly had Chance smiling.

      “I have no interest in marriage,” she said, “so there’s no provocation for suitors. Or courtship. Of any sort,” she added, hammering a final nail into the courtship coffin.

      That settled that.

      “Do you have reason to leave soon?” asked Skylar.

      “Well…no. But I don’t intend to wear out my welcome.”

      “So,” said Duce, “if you was to take a shine—”

      “I won’t marry.”

      Chance admired the firmness in her tone, and had to refrain from kicking his temporary foreman.

      “I don’t intend any insult,” she said, clearly noting the glum expressions around the table, “I just…”

      “She’s not interested,” Chance interjected. “And we won’t tolerate any pestering.” His gaze pinned every man at the table. “Duce, did you finish bringing in the mustangs on the north side?”

      “Not by half. We spent our morning tearing down the last of the Lazy J dam.”

      The rest of the conversation was a hum in Cora’s ears as Chance’s protective words played over in her mind. He’d been her strength for so long. Even as children, he’d taken the sting out of her mother’s endless insults.

      Your mama’s stupid. I like your orange hair.

      She stole another glance at him. Perhaps he hadn’t changed so much. The blond hair reaching his collar and flipping up around his ears was darker than she remembered, his strong masculine features far more handsome than she could have imagined. Could the Chance she’d known as a child be buried somewhere beneath that rugged exterior?

      His gaze caught hers. Flutters erupted low in her belly.

      His brow furrowed as he looked away. Anger darkened his eyes. “Salina said what?”

      Cora glanced at the shocked expressions around the table and realized there’d been a drastic shift in the conversation.

      “That you’re courting her,” said Skylar. “Her words. And she was rude to Cora while making her announcement.”

      Chance’s questioning gaze whipped toward her.

      “It was nothing,” Cora quickly put in. “She was obviously staking her claim on you, which is none of my business or my concern.”

      “Bu-shit!” Joshua slapped the tray of his high chair, capturing everyone’s attention. He shoved a soggy crust of bread back into his mouth and continued to babble incoherently.

      Skylar glared across the table at Chance.

      “Thanks a lot, partner,” he said to his nephew. “Mumble everything but the swear word.”

      “Much like his uncle,” said Skylar.

      Cora laughed into her napkin.

      “You know,” said Mitch, “courting Widow Jameson ain’t a bad idea. You take over the Lazy J and maybe we can actually get some work done around here instead of just repairing the fencing.”

      “I think I’d rather take my chances with Mad Mag,” said Duce, initiating a roar of laughter.

      Cora leaned close to Garret. “Who’s Mad Mag?”

      His hazel eye winked at her. “Crazy trapper woman who lives up on the mountain.”

      Chance’s chair scuffed across the floor as he shoved away from the table. “Excuse me,” he said, tossing his napkin onto his plate. “I’ve lost my appetite.”

      Cora couldn’t blame him. The thought of suffering through a forced marriage turned her stomach as well. At least Chance was aware of his situation and had his brute strength to fight off such unwanted advances.

      She’d had neither the warning nor the strength.

      Chapter Four

      The floors swept, the chopping block oiled and every other surface polished to a shine, Cora had run out of reasons to avoid heading upstairs. Skylar had bidden her good night some time ago. Tucker and Garret had also retired for the night. She set the dishcloth beside a sparkling sink basin and started toward the darkened stairwell.

      Sheer exhaustion had afforded her some sleep last night. She doubted she’d be so fortunate tonight. A sense of dread washed through her as she climbed the stairs. Since the night she’d left her mother’s house, she couldn’t lie in a bed without remembering the foul scent of bourbon hot on her face, waking to darkness and a great weight upon her.

      We won’t tolerate any pestering.

      The steel in Chance’s voice rang clear in her mind, easing the fear gripping her throat like a vice. She was glad to find the oil lamp already burning in her room, the warm glow spilling into the hall, as well as an odd scent. She stopped in the doorway, surprised by the large bouquet of bright flowers on the bureau.

      Garret.

      She couldn’t fathom who else would have brought them up to her room. Shutting the door behind her, she approached the colorful cluster, unsure how to take the young man’s attention. She leaned close to the tiny flowers in yellow, white, lavender and pink and breathed in their rather earthy, medicinal scent. A smile eased her tense expression.

      No one had ever given her flowers. Garret had been nothing but sweet to her and couldn’t be faulted for picking pretty weeds. They did brighten the room. She lifted the wildflowers from the water-filled jar and folded them into her apron. Once dried, they’d be a lovely decoration.

      She knelt before her trunk at the foot of her bed, pushed it open and began sifting through her pride and joy—bundles of yarn and balls of thread in every color. When she’d fled, she’d simply shoved some dresses into her sewing trunk before lowering it out of the window. Her sole possession had given her the greatest comfort during her journey west, and had been her only escape during the month of imprisonment with her mother. Why couldn’t Winifred have just left her alone?

      She often wondered if her mother would have treated her differently had she not inherited her father’s hair color and, presumably, his sturdy build. She’d never been given the name of her father, though she’d overheard enough whispers to surmise her existence was the result of her mother’s failed attempt to secure a titled Scotsman.

      She took some solace in knowing her father had had enough sense to outrun her mother. Just as Cora had more sense than to marry some drunken laird simply on her mother’s say-so. She was finished being the martyr to her mother’s past. She only wished she’d run sooner. She’d been such a fool to believe, to hope, her mother СКАЧАТЬ