The Cattleman Meets His Match. Sherri Shackelford

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      The woman scrambled in his loose hold and her elbow cracked his ribs. John flinched. So much for playing the gentleman. She didn’t appear at all grateful he’d taken the brunt of the fall—and soaked himself in the process. As she squirmed, her toe dug into his bent ankle.

      He yelped and circled her waist with one arm. “Take it easy.”

      The woman whipped around, battling against his protective grasp. Her eyes widened. “Let go of me this instant or I’ll scream. Please.”

      Sensing her terror, John obliged. With her arms braced against his chest, his sudden release propelled her backward. She sprang from his embrace and landed flat on her back, sprawled in the oily puddle.

      A chorus of titters sounded from above.

      The blonde girl swung her leg over the sill in a flurry of white petticoats. “I’m going next.”

      John scrambled upright, slipping and sliding in the muck. “No. Wait.”

      While his gaze swung between the prone woman and the knotted rope, the second girl crawled out the window. She shimmied down the length until her feet swayed just out of reach.

      John caught sight of a third girl straddling the ledge and his heartbeat quickened.

      “Stop!” he ordered ineffectively.

      The blonde dropped into his outstretched arms and he caught her slight weight against his chest.

      As he set her on her feet, she tipped back her head and struck his jaw. John saw stars. He was going to be black-and-blue by the time this was over.

      “Thanks.” The girl sketched a wave and scurried aside. “I’m Sarah. I’ll help Moira while you catch the others.”

      A pair of short boots descended into view, and John rubbed his sore chin.

      He slanted a glance at the woman he’d rescued first. “Lady, please tell me someone up there has some sense.”

      “Don’t count on it.” She avoided his searching gaze and stretched her right hand toward Sarah. “And you may call me Miss O’Mara.”

      John hid a grin as Sarah awkwardly assisted Miss O’Mara onto unsteady legs. For a wild moment the two clung to each other like a couple of drunken sailors on a pitched deck. The moment the woman regained her footing, they sprang apart.

      Miss O’Mara shook the mud from her back, then tugged her dark skirts lower. They were too short, showing a good bit of her worn boots and sliver of ankle. Together with her innocent face, it was easy to mistake her for an adolescent at first glance. On closer inspection, it was obvious she was in her late teens or early twenties.

      “You’d better stand firm,” the woman ordered, swiping the back of her hand over her mud-splattered face. “That’s Darcy and she’s the heaviest.”

      Distracted by the enticing smudge on Miss O’Mara’s cheek, John didn’t see the third escapee release her hold. His inattention cost him. A sharp elbow hammered his head and a boot scraped along his cheek. Blindly lifting his arms, he groaned beneath the girl’s weight and managed to set her aside before another, much smaller, pair of boots descended into his vision.

      A curly-haired child hugged the knotted sheets, her ankles crossed.

      John reached out. “Let go. I’ve got you.”

      The youngster shook her head, her dark curls almost black against the moonlight.

      Miss O’Mara stomped forward, her fisted hands planted on her slim hips. “Hazel, we haven’t much time. Let go this instant.”

      The girl frantically shook her head. John rolled his eyes. Logic and orders weren’t going to convince Hazel of safety.

      Stepping back a pace, he caught the little girl’s frightened gaze. “Almost there, Hazel. I’ll catch you.”

      The frightened child sniffled. “Promise?”

      “Promise.”

      John swiped his index finger in an x across his chest. The childish display of fealty captured Hazel’s attention.

      After a moment’s hesitation, she tumbled free and he easily caught her slight form. The instant he set her safely on the ground, she giggled. “That was fun. Can I do it again?”

      “No!” Moira and John shouted in unison.

      The last girl descended the rope and waved him aside. “Don’t need your help, mister.”

      Unlike the previous girls, she released her legs and worked her hands down the length until she was only a few feet above the ground. John crossed his arms and stepped back as she easily dropped the abbreviated distance.

      Straightening from her crouch, the girl dusted her hands together. “Thanks for helping with Hazel. I’m Antonella. But everyone calls me Tony.”

      The girl pumped his hand once and stomped off.

      John searched the empty window. A red velvet curtain flapped gently in the breeze. “Is that all of you?”

      Miss O’Mara gathered her charges. “That’s four. Darcy, Sarah, Tony and Hazel.”

      Scratching his head, John studied the motley gathering. “What are your ages, girls?”

      Darcy boldly elbowed forward. “I’m fifteen next month.”

      “Thirteen,” Sarah replied.

      “Twelve and a half,” Tony chimed in.

      The littlest girl, Hazel, glanced up. “I’m ten.”

      John caught Miss O’Mara’s gaze and lifted an eyebrow.

      She pursed her lips. “My age is none of your concern.”

      Over twenty, he surmised immediately. Over twenty was about the age when a single woman ceased advertising her age. Little did she know. He’d give anything to be in his early twenties once more, when he’d still felt invincible.

      Hazel tugged on his pant leg. “Are we safe now?”

      The hairs on the back of John’s neck stirred. Each building had a distinctive look from the front, but facing the alley, they blended together into one indistinguishable row. He counted the doors from the corner and his chest tightened.

      “Hey,” a slurred voice called from the open window. “Get back here.”

      The girls shrieked and spun away.

      Summoned by the commotion, a bearded man stuck his head out the saloon door and spit into the mud. “What’s goin’ on?”

      A clamor sounded from the far end of the alley.

      Miss O’Mara ushered the girls deeper into the darkness without even a backward glance. John split his attention between the growing cacophony of voices and the escapees.

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