The Wrong Cowboy. Lauri Robinson

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СКАЧАТЬ don’t say,” he drawled, simply because he had to say something. Her uppity attitude had him wanting to show her just who was in charge.

      Him.

      Stafford snapped the reins and let the horses set a steady pace forward. The trail was relatively smooth and driving the rig didn’t take much concentration or effort. Anyone could do it.

      “You know how to drive a team?” he asked.

      She didn’t glance his way, just kept her snooty little face forward. “Of course not. I am a nursemaid, not a teamster.”

      It had probably been a bad idea anyway. He just wanted to be anywhere but here right now. She was like every other woman he’d ever known, with a way of making a man feel obligated to be at her beck and call. He’d given up on that years ago and didn’t want to go back.

      “A nursemaid?” he asked, when his mind shifted. “I thought you were a mail-order bride.”

      Her sigh held weight. “A person can be two things at once.”

      “That they can,” he agreed. Snooty and persnickety.

      A cold glare from those brown eyes settled on him, telling him she knew he was thinking unkind thoughts about her, and he couldn’t help but grin. Let her know she was right. He even added a little wink for good measure.

      Huffing, she snapped her gaze forward again.

      Darn close to laughing, Stafford asked, “So how’d you and Mick meet?” The ranch was still a long way off and he might as well use the time to gather a bit more information. If she and Mick had corresponded, and if she had sent Mick a picture of herself, Mick would have waved it like a flag. Therefore, Stafford was convinced there had been no picture sharing. He also knew he’d need all the ammunition he could get once Mick saw her. Even as testy as a cornered cat, Marie Hall was a looker. Her profile reminded him of a charcoal silhouette, drawn, framed and hung on a wall to entice onlookers to imagine who the mysterious woman might be.

      Not that he was enticed. He knew enough not to be drawn in by the graceful arch of her chin or how her lashes looked an inch long as she stared straight ahead.

      After another weighty sigh, she said, “Mr. Wagner and I have not officially met, yet.”

      “Lucky man,” Stafford mumbled, trying to override the direction his thoughts wanted to go.

      An owl couldn’t snap its neck as fast as she could, and he was saved from whatever she’d been going to say when one of the kids—he couldn’t tell them apart for other than a few inches in height they all looked alike—poked their head through the canvas opening and whispered something in her ear.

      Stafford’s nerves ground together like millstones at the way her voice softened. When she spoke to those children honey practically poured out of her mouth. When it came to him, her tone was as sharp as needles. He couldn’t help but imagine it would be the same for Mick. The poor fool. What had he been thinking?

      An hour later, Stafford had flipped that question around on himself. What had he been thinking? Though he wasn’t an overly religious man, he found himself staring skyward and pleading. Save me. For the love of God, save me.

      Traveling with six kids was maddening. They flapped around more than chickens in a crate and argued nonstop, not to mention he’d had to halt the wagon again, twice, for people to relieve their “small bladders.” No wonder. She passed the canteen between those kids on a steady basis. Insisting they drink in this heat.

      He’d had enough. That was all there was to it. Enough. Even before discovering the dog—which looked more like a rat—the kids had been hiding in the back of the wagon. It had been clear Marie hadn’t known the older boys had smuggled it aboard, not until it, too, had to relieve itself. A dog that size wasn’t good for anything except getting stepped on, and from the looks of its round belly and swollen teats, there’d soon be a few more of them running around. Marie had been surprised about that, too. When he’d pointed it out, her cheeks had turned crimson.

      Before she began loading the children and the dog back into the wagon, Stafford leaned through the front opening of the canvas, gathered up both canteens and stashed them beneath the seat.

      They’d be putting on some miles before anyone got another drink. He wasn’t being mean, wouldn’t let anyone die of thirst, he was just putting his foot down.

      It was a good ten minutes before everyone was settled in the back of the wagon and she’d once again stationed her bottom on the seat beside him. Stafford didn’t bother waiting for her signal, just gave out a low whoop that sent the horses forward.

      A short time later, when the little guy with the lisp said he was hungry, Stafford merely shook his head.

      She on the other hand, said consolingly, “I’m sure we’ll stop for lunch soon, Weston.” Flipping her tone sour as fast as a cook turns flapjacks on a grill, she added, “Won’t we, Mr. Burleson?”

      “Nope,” Stafford answered.

      “Yes, we will,” she insisted. “Children have small stomachs, and—”

      “And Jackson is probably a good five miles ahead of us.” Pointing out the obvious, in case she’d forgotten, he added, “He has all the food with him. You were the one who said it wouldn’t fit in this wagon.”

      Marie had to press a hand to her lips to contain her gasp. The wagon bed was so small, barely enough room for each child to sit comfortably, she’d had to insist all other items be placed in the larger freight wagon. Surly even someone as vile as Mr. Burleson could understand that. Though the freight wagon, once a dot on the horizon, was gone.

      “Why did you let him get so far ahead of us?” she asked.

      “I didn’t,” Mr. Burleson answered with a clipped tone. “You did.” He gave an indifferent nod over one shoulder. “Small bladders.”

      Pinching her lips together didn’t help much. Neither did searching her brain full of nursemaid training. None of it had prepared her for this. Her education focused on what to do inside the home of her charges. Improvise. She had to find something to take the child’s mind off his hunger, and then she’d be able to work out what to do about it. Turning she reached for one of the canteens. “Have some water for now, dear.”

      Neither container was where she’d left it. “Who has the canteens?” she asked, looking mainly at Terrance. Though she tried not to single him out, he was usually the culprit.

      The boy shook his head. “I don’t have them.”

      “I do.”

      A nerve ticked in her jaw as she turned to look at Mr. Burleson. “Why?”

      “Because I’ll say who can have a drink, and when.”

      “The children—”

      “Won’t starve or die of thirst before we catch up with Jackson.”

      That would not do. “Mr. Burleson—”

      Despite the heat of the sun, his cold stare had her vocal chords freezing up.

      “No СКАЧАТЬ