Oklahoma Wedding Bells. Carol Finch

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СКАЧАТЬ 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.

      When weariness settled over her, depressing thoughts closed in. Josie wondered what she would do if she couldn’t find a piece of property with a good water source and natural protection from inclement weather. What if she failed to stake a claim at all?

      She’d heard in town that at least twenty-five thousand people were expected to make the wild run for free land. She knew some of them were settlers that had been unsuccessful in staking claims during the first two such events.

      What if she and Muriel ended up with nothing?

      Rooster pricked his ears and shifted sideways suddenly. Josie snapped to attention when she heard rustling in the underbrush. Now what? she thought in annoyance.

      To her dismay, a scruffy cowboy, who looked part Spanish, staggered from the bushes. His shaggy black hair scraped the collar of his dingy shirt. His wide-set black eyes were at half-mast. He had a six-shooter strapped to each hip and he carried a near-empty whiskey bottle in one hand. Josie swore the hombre must have ingested most of the liquor, then used several drops as cologne, because offensive smells oozed from every pore.

      “Well, well, well,” the stocky cowboy drawled. “If it ain’t Button-Eye Malloy all alone for once. I’ve had you in my sights for a week, honey.”

      “The answer is no,” she said, out of patience with all men everywhere. “I’m not interested in marrying you. Go away.”

      “Marry?” He snickered, exposing a mouthful of jagged teeth. “Hell, honey, I don’t wanna wed you. Just bed you.” He discarded the bottle and advanced toward her.

      Josie had found herself in similar situations on several occasions. Drunks with lust on their minds were more dangerous than overeager suitors. “Stay away from me or you’ll be sorry,” she warned, scooping up a fallen branch to use as an improvised club.

      The unkempt hooligan just kept coming. Josie stepped around Rooster, using the horse as a shield. To her frustration, the ruffian swatted the stallion’s rump. The flighty horse bolted sideways, knocking Josie flat on her back. She let out a yelp and tried to regain her feet before the ruffian sprawled atop her, but he overpowered her and trapped her beneath him.

      She was reminded instantly of having Tremain fall on her, but this was not the same. She had felt a fierce physical attraction to the ruggedly handsome horse trader. She felt nothing but disgust and repulsion for this lusty drunkard.

      He clamped a beefy hand around her leg, jerking it sideways to make room for himself between her thighs. Josie tried to whack him over the head with the tree branch, but he blocked the blow with his elbow.

      “Get off me!” she yelled at the top of her lungs.

      “Not till you give me a kiss,” he growled. His shaggy head moved steadily toward hers.

      Furious, Josie bucked beneath him and turned her face away. He grabbed a hank of her hair and yanked hard. She screeched in pain and outrage, and clobbered him on the shoulder with her makeshift club. Unfortunately, the blow only served to make him vindictive.

      “You wanna play rough, do you, bitch?” he sneered. “Your choice—”

      To Josie’s surprise, her attacker suddenly levitated off the ground, flew through the air, then landed again with a grunt and a thud. She glanced up to see Solomon Tremain looming over her, looking like Satan arriving from the gates of hell. His eyes were narrowed slits of green flame and his facial expression was as hard as a tombstone. His menacing growl would have scared the living daylights out of anyone sober enough to realize Tremain was not a man to challenge if you valued your life.

      “Get yer own woman,” the drunkard spat as he climbed onto all fours. “I found her first!”

      “Might be the last thing you ever do,” Tremain snarled ferociously. Then he swooped down on her attacker.

      Panting for breath, Josie braced herself on her elbows and watched the horse trader clutch the front of the hooligan’s shirt. He hauled him roughly to his feet and knocked the stuffing out of the brute, who hit the ground again—hard. The brain-scrambling blow caused his dark eyes to roll around like a pair of dice.

      She watched in satisfaction as the ruffian shook his head to gather his wits, then gasped in alarm when he made a grab for one of the pistols on his hips.

      “Watch out!” she called to her rescuer.

      She wasted her breath. Tremain had lightning-quick reflexes and had already sprung into action. He shoved his boot heel against the man’s wrist, dislodging the weapon and making him howl in pain. Tremain confiscated both pistols, then stepped on the hooligan’s neck to discourage him from trying to gain his feet.

      For a horse trader, Tremain was downright impressive when it came to hand-to-hand combat. Josie wondered if it was his Cheyenne training that prepared him to react so quickly and effectively. Probably, she decided. She could use a few lessons in self-defense from him. Clearly, she wasn’t as good at fending off attackers as she’d thought.

      “Do you have something you’d like to say to the lady?” Tremain asked in a low, vicious tone as he towered over the downed man like a seething thundercloud of doom.

      “No, and you can go to hell,” the man choked out.

      “Already been there. Now it’s your turn to see what it’s like.”

      Josie pushed herself into a sitting position to massage her aching back, which had slammed into the ground one too many times in the past two hours.

      “You okay, Miz Malloy?” Tremain asked, without taking his fierce glare—or his booted foot—off her tormentor.

      “I’ve been better,” she admitted. “But thanks for asking.” She rolled to her hands and knees, favoring the wrist she’d hurt earlier that evening, and then rose slowly to her feet.

      Her rescuer grabbed the drunkard and hoisted him off the ground. The man swayed as Tremain shook him, as if to clear his whiskey-saturated senses. Josie knew it wouldn’t help. She had pounded her attacker with her makeshift club, but he had consumed a pint of whiskey, and the blows hadn’t fazed him.

      “Come with me,” the horse trader demanded sharply. “You need to sober up, and a bath wouldn’t hurt, either.”

      With satisfaction, Josie watched Tremain shove her assailant into the creek. The hombre landed with a splash and came up cursing the air black-and-blue.

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