Wed To The Montana Cowboy. Carol Arens

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СКАЧАТЬ wanted to weep for her. Give the girl six months, and she would be visiting Doc Brody with sores that she would never recover from.

      Maybe he ought to sit down beside her and warn her of the danger, but he had the boy slung over his shoulder.

      At any rate, the young woman would resent his interference and he was in no position to advise or heal anyone.

      Still, it was a shame to imagine such beauty fading to despair and illness.

      A few moments later, he deposited the boy on a chair inside the Gilded Cage.

      He approached the bar and signaled Brody with a wave.

      “That one’s no more than a kid,” he explained to the “Doctor” and pushed a five-dollar bill in his direction. “See what you can do to get him sober.”

      “You and your strays, Lantree.” The bartender poured him a shot of amber-colored whiskey. “Just a dram to keep you warm on the ride home.”

      “Appreciate it, Doc.”

      He took a sip, enjoying the smooth heat sliding down his throat, warming his belly.

      At the other end of the bar, a young man...a deckhand from the Queen, he thought, chatted with Big Nosed Mike. No one knew Mike’s real name, but everyone knew about his bullish reputation...everyone apparently but the boy chatting amiably with him.

      Lantree slugged down the rest of his drink. Coulson was wearing on his nerves. The sooner he got home to the tranquility of the ranch, the happier he would be.

      On his way out the door, he paused to straighten the boy in his chair and check his pulse one more time.

      He’d recover this time, but if no one took him in hand he faced a sad, short future.

      Outside, June sunshine warmed his face, but come tonight the weather would turn downright cold. It was a lucky thing he’d purchased several heavy blankets and a couple of rain slickers.

      “Walker!” came a voice from behind him on the boardwalk. “Hold up a minute.”

      He’d hoped to get in and out of town without a confrontation with William Smothers, Coulson’s power-hungry mayor.

      He stopped, turned. When he did, he spotted the fresh young woman with the bird. She was standing beside her trunk, stretching. She was tall, very tall, with a lithe, lovely figure. He wished...well, he wished for a lot of things, but it was a shame about the girl.

      Smothers gazed up at him, yanking then smoothing the lapels of his fancy suit over his portly belly. “I heard you were in town.”

      “Just on my way out.”

      “Arrange a meeting for me with your boss.” As usual, Smothers was short and to the point.

      The fellow was shifty, all right. Just because he wore a tailored suit and polished boots didn’t make him any less of a snake.

      “Mr. Moreland sends his regards and his regrets.”

      “See here, Lantree. The railroad is coming. This town is going to grow up overnight. We need lumber. Moreland’s got more trees than he needs.”

      “Not interested.”

      Smothers might yak all day without Hershal giving up so much as a branch.

      He’d refused to sell it to fuel the steamboats. He’d escorted the railroad folks off his land with a shotgun. His boss was as protective of his trees as he might have been with his own kin, if he’d had any.

      There was the granddaughter, but her mother’s family had poisoned her opinion of Moreland. The girl would never come here, no matter how much comfort she would be able to give the old man.

      “You arrange a meeting, and I’ll make it worth your while. How much do you make as ramrod for Moreland? Not as much as you’d like, I’d be willing to bet.”

      “I watch out for Moreland’s interests.”

      “Just deliver the message this time.” Smothers’s face began to mottle. A red circle blotched his nose. “Or I’ll find another, not-so-gentle way of delivering it.”

      “Is that a threat, Smothers?” Lantree took a step closer, bent down to the mayor’s level and spoke softly. “I reckon you didn’t mean it to be.”

      “I want those trees.”

      “Get them somewhere else.”

      “You know that property has the best lumber, and all near the river. We need it and we need it fast if Coulson is going to be the railhead and not Billings. The survival of this town depends on it.”

      One more reason for Hershal to hold on to his trees, as far as Lantree was concerned. If the railroad boss picked another place for his town and this one died, so much the better.

      “If you try anything illegal, I’ll know it, Smothers.”

      He walked away, leaving the man steaming in his fancy duds.

      Home, Moreland Ranch, could not come soon enough.

      * * *

      Thanks to Tom, Rebecca had a guide. She watched while the squat but solid-looking man built a campfire for the night.

      To appearances, Mike looked like a ruffian, with shaggy hair that could use a wash, along with the rest of him. But this was a rugged land, full of rugged men, and she would not judge his character by his grooming habits. Besides, Tom would not have sent him to her unless he was of dependable character.

      Wisely, she had only paid him half his due, the rest to be delivered upon her safe arrival at Moreland Ranch. Even if Mike did not care about her welfare in a personal sense, he would want the rest of his money.

      If nothing else, her guide did build a roaring fire. The flames chased away some of the chill setting in, now that the sun had set. She walked to her trunk where it was stored for the night beside the pair of saddles lying on the ground.

      If the rest of the journey went as easily as the first three hours, it would be a pleasant trip.

      She withdrew a key from the pocket of her skirt, opened the trunk, then lifted out her coat and shrugged it on.

      Mike glanced over at her with a grin.

      Compared to the place she had grown up, Montana was big and wild. In Kansas City, one ran into folks on every street corner. Here in the wild, even street corners were scarce.

      She listened to the night sounds, how they all blended, composing a song. When she closed her eyes, she could clearly pick out the melody created by a pair of hooting owls. The sough of the breeze through the treetops made up the chorus. Far away, lifting on the wind, she heard what sounded like a man’s voice, but was more likely the yipping and yapping of a pack of coyotes on a distant hilltop.

      “Beans?” Kneeling by the fire, Mike pivoted on his knee, his face lit up like a gap-toothed jack-o’-lantern. He lifted a can in his fist. “Ain’t much of a cook, СКАЧАТЬ