Love on the Range. Jessica Nelson

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       A mass of flowing, dark hair covered her profile as she read. He groaned, wishing Lou had sent him on business anywhere else but here.

       Truth was, he’d rather run the risk of contracting influenza than have to deal with some shallow socialite spouting nonsense about her nonexistent God. And there was her interest in Striker…

       He settled back and opened the paper. It was unfortunate this Miss Riley knew so much about Striker’s whereabouts. Maybe something had been leaked to the papers. He thumbed through but found nothing except a small paragraph focusing on Mendez’s latest foiled kidnapping attempt.

       His mouth quirked.

       Mendez didn’t have the success rate he used to. The knowledge almost made him happy. Almost, but not quite, because on the train a grizzled man had caught Trevor’s attention. Though the man pretended to look out a window, Trevor had felt his perusal.

       The watcher had looked familiar, the stink of an outlaw settling about his person.

       Trevor rubbed his chin. The man had gotten off at an earlier stop, but that didn’t keep his suspicions from being raised.

       A clatter diverted his thoughts as a well-used wagon rolled up to the platform. Finally. He grabbed his traveling bag and sauntered over.

       “’Bout time, old man.”

       “Stock got out.” James, Lou’s cowhand, among other things, grunted and took the satchel from Trevor. He nodded toward the station. “That the girl?”

       “Yep.”

       They turned to look at Lou’s niece. She must’ve seen James’s arrival because she hesitantly picked her way toward them. Probably reluctant to believe she’d be riding in a wagon, if he had to venture a guess.

       “While she’s getting settled I’ll grab some water for the horses,” Trevor told James.

       By the time he lugged two pails over, Miss Riley was nowhere to be seen. He plopped the water in front of the team and squared his gaze on James. “Where’d she go?”

       “Said she’s got luggage.”

       Trevor glanced toward the station. Sure enough, she stumbled off the platform toting the biggest piece of luggage he’d ever seen.

       Women.

       Biting back annoyance, Trevor walked over to her. Apparently she thought pulling the trunk might work better than lifting it.

       “Why don’t you let me handle this?” he said to the back of her head.

       The trunk thudded to the ground. Miss Riley fell with it, sprawling in an unladylike heap. Faster than he could draw his Colt revolver, she bounded to her feet and frantically began brushing at her clothes.

       “Mr. Cruz…?”

       “We have the same destination. Allow me to help you.” He gestured to the trunk.

       She stepped aside. “Thank you.”

       They walked to the wagon, and he stowed her trunk in the back. He offered her his hand. She took it.

       The warmth of her hand was discomfiting. With his help, she climbed easily into the back of the wagon where a blanket lay bundled near the bags, waiting for her.

       She smiled down at him, her lips a soft curve in the deepening night, and for a fraction of a second he found himself tempted to smile back.

       He released her hand, gave a curt nod and headed to his side of the wagon. Night had arrived and stars filled Oregon’s sky, lighting the vast openness surrounding them. He emptied the buckets and stuck them in the wagon next to Miss Riley, then hopped up to the front.

       James snapped the reins. “It’s not proper-like for a lady to be traveling at night with two men. Best get moving before someone sees and starts yapping their mouths.” He spit a stream of tobacco juice toward the ground.

       They set out, Miss Riley quiet and still behind him.

       Was she thinking about Striker? Making plans to find him for that outlandish interview?

       Trevor’s jaw clenched. As long as things remained in his control, Striker would never be found.

      Chapter Two

      Oregon might not be so awful. As the wagon lurched forward, the deep sea of stars speckling the night sky filled Gracie with awe.

       Gracie grabbed a thick blanket and draped it over her shoulders, making sure it bunched behind her back to protect her from the rickety wagon sides. This was the oldest Studebaker she’d ever seen.

       Mr. Riley and James sat at the front in silence. For a while the only sound was the occasional snort of a horse, the clop of their hooves and James spitting.

       As James drove, Gracie wondered about Uncle Lou. She hoped he was interesting. She and her best friend Connie had discussed all the qualities he might have—humor, irony, mischievousness. Gracie liked to think of him as a funny old man, a little on the heavy side with tufts of hair sprouting from unlikely places. But he couldn’t be too old as he was her father’s little brother and Father was only forty.

       Mother didn’t like Uncle Lou, and Father had nothing good to say about him. In fact, now that she thought about it, the reasons for their dislike had never been made clear. She had only heard Uncle Lou was unfitting, a rascal and irresponsible. He must be poor, also. Why else would he pick her up in some outdated wagon when he could send a motor vehicle?

       His quirks, however, might very well work in her favor when she unveiled her plan to him.

       After five minutes of interminable boredom, she decided to initiate a conversation. “Mr. Cruz, it is coincidental we’re heading the same way. Don’t you find it strange?”

       “What I find strange, Miss Riley, is that you were able to keep your mouth closed for more than a minute.”

       An odd gargled sound came from James’s direction, and Gracie frowned into the darkness.

       “I don’t think it necessary to be so obtuse. Besides, you don’t need to address me as ‘Miss.’ You may use my Christian name. People call me Gracie.” She took a breath. “Do you live near Uncle Lou?”

       More noises came from James and his shoulders began shaking uncontrollably. The sound of his hoarse wheezing filled the night air.

       Alarm spiked through her, tingling to her fingertips. Was James suffering heart palpitations? She leaped to her feet, despite the bouncing floor, and grabbed the reins from his slack hands. The horses tensed and, sensing a strange driver, began to gallop. A miraculously recovered James jerked the reins from her hands.

       “What’re you doing, woman? Are you mad?” His angry voice snapped at her.

       Ears burning, she pulled the blanket over herself and huddled on the floor of the wagon. James hadn’t been having a heart attack, only a laughing fit. At her expense. What a rude man. And Mr. Cruz СКАЧАТЬ