Oklahoma Wedding Bells. Carol Finch

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      “The horses aren’t stolen, are they?” Josie asked, so innocently that Sol knew instantly that she was up to no good. “Heavens, I’d hate to think the man who saved me from fatal disaster was a thief.”

      Sol managed to maintain his trademark deadpan expression, but he inwardly fumed when Josie batted her eyes at him. What the hell was she doing? Fifteen minutes ago, she’d bitten his head off and insisted she didn’t need rescuing. Now she was hailing him as a hero for saving her. He was beginning to think there were two women housed in that luscious body of hers—a witch and an angel—and you could never know which one would show up at any given moment. She sure as hell had him buffaloed.

      “I’m not a thief,” Sol insisted, while Muriel stared at him and Grant bit back a wry smile. “I’m half Cheyenne, and my people are offering their well-trained herds of horses for sale to the invading whites. We might as well make money off this outrageous theft of our land. Not to mention another peace treaty broken by the white government.”

      Sol shut his mouth so fast he nearly bit off the end of his tongue. Why had he blurted that out? He waited for Josie’s and Muriel’s reactions to his mixed heritage, and told himself he didn’t care what they thought.

      To his surprise, neither woman recoiled in repulsion, just stared at him for a few moments before nodding in acceptance of his announcement.

      “That explains it,” Josie said eventually.

      “Explains what?” Sol demanded, a little too defensively.

      She grinned at him, which made him nervous, because he couldn’t figure her out … and it aggravated him that he wanted to be able to.

      “That’s why you dislike me,” she continued, still smiling. “You resent my intrusion on Cheyenne-Arapaho land, and you’re also taking your dislike out on my horse.”

      Sol snorted. “I find fault with that stallion because he is a disaster waiting to happen. Do yourself a favor and buy one of my horses. You’ll be safe instead of risking your neck on that unpredictable misfit.”

      “You two will have to continue your debate elsewhere,” Grant interjected. “You are on the wrong side of the boundary line and I have a meeting to attend.” He glanced at Muriel. “Can you and your friend return to camp without an escort?”

      “We’ll be fine,” she assured him crisply. “I already told you that in most instances we are perfectly capable of taking care of ourselves.”

      “But you should ignore the gunshots you’ll hear coming from camp when we return,” Josie suggested flippantly. “I plan to shoot the men who fired their pistols, spooked our horses and sent them racing out of control. I expect Muriel will stab those inconsiderate hooligans with her knife a few times for good measure, too.”

      Grant glanced at Sol after the women trotted off, with Rooster still tossing his head. “She’s kidding, right?”

      How was he supposed to know? Sol couldn’t figure Josie out. “Your guess is as good as mine.” He frowned when he noticed Grant was watching Muriel intently. “I thought you didn’t like the brunette.”

      The commander swung his head toward Sol. “I don’t. Personally, I think she delights in all that male attention, despite her claim that she isn’t interested in accepting a marriage proposal before the race for land.”

      “Why do you care one way or the other?”

      “Didn’t say I did,” Grant muttered defensively.

      Sol let the matter drop, since the man appeared to be highly sensitive about the brunette, regardless of his insistence to the contrary.

      “Did you find out anything about the gunslingers we spotted in town?” he asked as he led the way to their secluded rendezvous site near Shallow Springs.

      Grant nodded soberly. “The gunmen met up with a Texas rancher named Carlton Bradley at the Oasis, a local brothel. Later, I saw Bradley chatting with several hopeful settlers at one of the tent communities while I was making my rounds.”

      “Which camp?” Sol questioned as he walked Outlaw into a copse of willows near the rippling springs.

      “I think he’s camped just north of the one where Josie and Muriel are staying.”

      Sol nodded pensively. “I need to find out what Bradley and his small army are up to. Robbery, maybe. He might be trying to familiarize himself with the settlers’ routines. There are a lot of people about, carrying their life savings to make improvements on the land—if they manage to stake a claim without getting killed during the race.”

      “I talked to Sam Colby, the city marshal, this afternoon,” Grant commented. “He mentioned that robberies were occurring with alarming regularity. Bradley and his thugs might be stealing all the money they can get their hands on before hightailing it back to Texas.”

      “The same sort of things happened in the two previous land runs,” Sol reported, then frowned curiously. “What does this Bradley character look like?”

      “He’s about your height, with reddish-brown hair, a false smile, gray eyes and a square face.” Grant rattled the description off. “I think he is as fond of females as he is of money. I see him flirting constantly with married and single women alike.”

      “Maybe we should sic Josie on him,” Sol said drily. “I just met that firebrand, but I think she could put Bradley in his place in nothing flat.”

      “We’ll send Muriel with her. She has tried to put me in my place on several occasions,” the commander mumbled. “And I don’t fling insulting innuendos the way Bradley reportedly does.”

      “If you come across anyone else that arouses your suspicion, let me know.” Sol glanced back at his colleague as he reined Outlaw away from the springs. “By the way, my cousin spotted two squatters tucked in a ravine about eight miles northwest of the fort. Both men were heavily armed with pistols and rifles.”

      “I’ll take out a patrol to confront them tonight,” Grant promised. “After we overtake them, they can camp out in the stockade with the rest of their conniving kind.”

      “Good place for the bastards. You may have to expand the size of the stockade before this damn race for land takes place,” Sol muttered before he rode off.

      The moment Josie and Muriel reached the tent community, four would-be fiancés approached, eagerly offering to unsaddle their horses. One of the men thrust a tattered jacket at Muriel to repair. The eager suitor followed her like a puppy when she hiked off to fetch her sewing kit.

      “If you don’t mind, I need my privacy,” Josie told the three who lagged behind.

      The men bobbed their heads and backed away, much to her relief. She was not in the mood to be polite or listen to more flattery. She just wanted peace and quiet while she brushed down Rooster and staked out Bess, Muriel’s mare, to graze.

      Privacy was difficult to obtain these days, though. The area was jumping with people who anticipated the day of the run. More competition, Josie thought, disgruntled, as she groomed the stallion. She smiled, noting this was the only time he stood still. He liked the personal attention.

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