A tall cowboy shifted his hat over curly black hair. “Name’s Wyatt McNealy. I hear you’re headed to the Morgan Ranch and are, uh, in need of my services.”
Cora took one look at Wyatt McNealy’s smug grin and winking eye and knew she’d crawl the twenty miles to the Morgan Ranch before she’d travel in the company of a man carrying the stench of alcohol.
“You are mistaken, Mr. McNealy. I am not in need of any services.”
“Spud tells me you’re headed out to the Morgan place. I happen to be traveling in that direction. No sense in you having to struggle with a cart across such rugged ground.”
Cora squared her shoulders. “I appreciate your concern, but I’m quite capable of handling a horse and cart. After traveling for weeks without altercation, I’m sure I can manage another twenty miles.” She attempted to move past him. “Good day.”
He sidestepped, blocking her way.
Fear nettled beneath her skin. Her fingers tightened around the handle of her carpetbag, preparing to knock him out of her way. Her other hand curled into a fist, just as her stepbrothers had taught her.
“You kin to the Morgans?”
“We’re a kin of sorts,” she said, hoping Chance and Tucker still thought of her as such.
“Well then.” His fingers closed around her elbow. “I know they’d want me to make sure you reached their homestead safe and sound.”
Cora wrenched her arm from his grasp.
“Wyatt!” boomed a voice from behind them. “You black-hearted son of a bitch!” The cracking of knuckles against Wyatt’s jawbone punctuated the hard-spoken words. Wyatt dropped to the boardwalk. The crowd around them dispersed like a clutch of spooked chickens. Cora swallowed a shriek and backed against the building as Wyatt’s attacker brushed past her.
The dark figure seemed a giant, well over six feet and covered in dried mud. He turned toward his companion standing in the road. Wyatt started to rise. The giant tossed something at him, knocking him back down with a loud clunk.
A dead foal caked in mud pinned him to the boardwalk. Cora clamped her hand over her gaping mouth.
Wyatt groaned and shoved against the weight.
“I’ll be sending you a bill for that foal and any others should they die from the stress you put them through. You better pray they make it, Wyatt.”
Wyatt shifted. Cora saw his hand going for the hilt of his gun. Before she could shout a warning, a younger man stepped forward and pointed his rifle at Wyatt’s head.
“The kid’s known to have an itchy trigger finger,” said the muddy rogue. “I’d hold real still if I were you.”
Her pulse thundering in her ears, Cora glanced beyond the giant pillar of dirt and his young accomplice, toward the spectators gathered at a safe distance. Most watched with mild interest, while others continued on about their business.
Where was the sheriff?
The beastly rogue moved closer. Cora pressed her back against the rough wood of the building, holding her breath as his filthy trousers brushed across her yellow skirt.
He knelt beside Wyatt. “You got anything to say for what you did?”
“I didn’t do—” Wyatt’s whimpered words ended in a squeal as the man grabbed his boot and wrenched it up.
“Sure looks like the dainty boot prints we saw in that riverbed, don’t it, Garret? A notch in the left heel.”
The younger man spared a glance, his hazel eyes taking in the notched heel. “Sure does. Matches perfectly.”
“You so much as kick a pebble into that river to divert water from my land again, and I’ll be gunning for you, Wyatt. That’s a promise.”
“You’re the one bent on using that devil wire!”
“Got tired of waiting for you boys on the Lazy J to learn your alphabet. Our brands are distinctly different. I’ve been patient with your boss, but if you don’t catch on, I’ll have no choice but to believe you’re rustlers. Stupidity’s forgivable, Wyatt. Stealing isn’t.” He lifted Wyatt’s gun from its holster and tucked it into his own grimy waistband. “Just a precaution to keep you from filling my back with lead.” He straightened and turned away, stepping out into the street.
Cora released a hard sigh of relief but found herself stuck between the building and Wyatt’s sprawled legs, the rest of him still struggling with the muddy carcass.
“We didn’t mean to startle you so,” the younger man said, his gun now lowered at his side. “Let’s get you out of harm’s way.” He flashed a gentle smile and offered his arm.
Cora nodded and allowed him to lead her around Wyatt.
“I sure hate that you were caught in the midst of our quarrel.” Reaching the road, the young man stepped away from her and removed his hat, revealing short cotton-white hair. The dirt on his trousers didn’t go past his knees. “I hope you’ll accept my apologies.”
“Of course,” she said, forcing a tight smile.
“Garret!”
Cora jumped at the harsh shout and spotted the other man standing on the boardwalk across the road.
“I’s just apologizing to the lady for scaring her half to death,” Garret shouted back.
The beastly man tugged off his hat. His matted hair was just as dirt-filled as the rest of him. He batted the hat against his thigh, scattering dust and chunks of dried mud. “If she’s looking for formal socials and tea parties, she bes’ get back on the stage. There’s nothing but backstabbers and mudskippers around these parts.”
He was obviously a mudskipper, Cora thought, watching him shove his hat back onto his crusted hair. His sharp green eyes burned with irritation before he turned and walked into the general store.
“Don’t mind him,” said Garret. “He’s just havin’ a real bad day. You be careful, now.” He tipped his hat to Cora, then turned and darted across the busy road.
Cora didn’t waste a moment. She hurried to the livery at the end of the road. Rounding the corner, she was pleased to find a large bay mare hitched to a cart just outside the open double doors. Her trunk had been secured to the back. She tossed her bag onto the seat, then stepped into the shadows of the large stable.
“Mr. Spud?” she called out.
“Miss Tindale.” Mr. Spud stepped from a stall. His stringy gray hair poked out in all directions from beneath his battered brown hat. A grin pushed high into his whiskery face. “Don’t you look pretty as a spring daisy,” he said, brushing his hands across the front of his striped shirt as he walked toward her.
“You’re too kind,” she said, certain the old man’s eyesight must be failing. “May I assume my cart is ready?”
Mr. Spud’s bushy gray eyebrows pinched. “Didn’t Wyatt find you?”
“Yes. He’s been detained. As I said earlier, I’m quite capable of handling a cart.”
“I can’t send you out into those hills by your lonesome. The Morgans won’t—”
“You’ve given me explicit directions. I can assure you—”
“Hey, Spud! You in there?”
Cora tensed, recognizing that strident voice. Not again.
“Well, speak of the devil,” Mr. Spud said as he peered toward the open double doors, “and he’s bound to surface.”
Coated with dirt, the man did look as though he’d crawled up out of the earth.