Dorothy Garlock - [Wyoming Frontier] (27 page)

Pack had been sitting on the bunk rubbing a cloth over the barrel of a rifle. Did he think he’d have to use it against Cullen? Had she, by asking Pack to marry her, put his life on the line?

Of course she had!

The knowledge ate at her. She fell back onto the pillow. In the past she had been able to deal with the nightmare of being alone and had refused to let herself be turned into a frightened shell. She wondered now if she would be able to live with the horror if Pack were killed because of her. Desolation such as she had never felt before washed over her like a giant tidal wave and she felt the walls closing in on her, stifling her.

Mara turned to look out the window. Through it she could see a million stars shining against the black void of the night sky. There were so many they made her feel small and as insignificant as one grain of sand on a beach.

The tree limb scraped on the tin roof, an owl hooted, both familiar sounds. Pack’s face nudged itself into her mind’s eye. Pack’s words came back to her.
Sweet little Mara,
you’ve worked too hard. These little hands will be soft again,
I promise.

The sound of footsteps coming up the stairs sent her heartbeat into a wild gallop. She lifted her head from the pillow and gazed wide-eyed at the door. She hadn’t expected him to come to her! Surely he wouldn’t—didn’t mean to—to sleep in the bed with her! She held her breath. In the stillness she heard the doorknob turn against the prop wedged beneath it. Seconds of breathless silence followed. Then a rap on the door.

“Open the door, Mara Shannon.”

He didn’t sound angry, but his voice sent shivers of dread knifing through her. Dread so acute that she couldn’t speak. She only had time for an indrawn breath before he rapped again.

“Open the door.” This time he spoke with some agitation.

“I’m asleep.” Her voice squeaked. How could she have said anything so stupid?

“Mara Shannon, open this goddamn door. I’m not going to ask you again.” The loud thump that shook the wall could only be his heavy boot as he kicked the bottom of the door. “If I rip this door down it will not be replaced. Stop acting like a quaking virgin and open the door.”

Mara was out of the bed before she realized his goading words had moved her. She pushed the hair back from her eyes and went to the door. It was difficult to dislodge the prop beneath the knob, but she yanked on it and it came loose. Holding it in her hands she backed into the corner of the room.

The door was thrown open. Pack’s big form was a shadow that filled the doorway. He stood for a moment, then took two steps into the room, his head turned to Mara, who was like a white ghost against the wall.

“You’ve no reason to cringe from me, Mara Shannon. I’m not here to rut on your virginal body. If you thought to keep me out by barring the door, you needn’t have gone to the trouble. I’ll not have this door or any door in this house barred against me. In case of fire, I might not be able to break down the door in time to save you.” His voice changed from calm reasoning to one filled with contempt. “Go back to bed and dream your silly, schoolgirl dreams. I’m not so desperate for a woman that I’d find pleasure in taking an unwilling one.”

Mara stood in a kind of frozen agony, clutching the heavy timber. His contemptuous words hit her like stones. The shadow disappeared, and she heard Pack going down the stairs.

THIRTEEN

Mara looked worried when Pack came out of the bedroom with the holster and gun strapped around his waist; worried and anxious and tired. He looked at her steadily, up and down, with no regard for politeness. She flushed beneath his look. Damn, she was pretty! She reminded him of a cameo he’d seen in a shop in Denver. But there was nothing hard and rigid about her fine-boned features, only anxiety, fatigue and dark smudges beneath her eyes. He had never seen a woman who was so soft and feminine, sensual and exciting. She was all warm tones from the top of her auburn hair and emerald eyes to the flushed skin of her face and neck. His gaze moved down over her soft, full breasts and narrow waist, and he found himself wondering how it would feel to hold her naked in his arms. Pack tore his eyes away from her to rid his mind of the thought.

The feeling in Mara’s stomach was not pleasant. It churned with fear as her heart beat slowly and heavily.

“Do you think you’ll need that?” She waved her hand at the gun on his hip.

“Better to have it and not need it than to need it and not have it,” he said, retreating behind a wall of stony silence.

She searched his face for a hint of what he was thinking but saw only eyes as hard as steel, a firm thrusting jaw and an implacable mouth. Right now he was as unapproachable and as distantly remote as a stone statue on a high pedestal. He was the most self-assured person she had ever met—hard, clever, knowing exactly what he was doing at all times. She could think of nothing to say to him.

“Stay in the house.” He issued the order coolly without looking at her and walked out the door.

Pack had waited until he was sure that the men were eating breakfast before he walked down the path toward the cookshack. The only plan he had was to pick a time when all the men were together in one place. He didn’t know who would stand with Cullen and who wouldn’t. In the past when he had been in a tight spot he had played it by ear. That’s what he would do now. If he had to fight Cullen, he would. He understood well that a fight meant a gunfight. Pack hated violence, hated the thought of killing a man. But years of struggling for survival among rough men, in rougher country, had taught him that a man did what he had to do to stay alive.

He looked back over his shoulder. One of his young brothers was at the well; the other was building a fire beneath the wash pot. He had told them to see to it that Mara Shannon stayed in the house. He was sure that they’d do just that.

A half a dozen men were seated at the long plank table when Pack walked into the cookshack. He sized up the layout in a single glance. Cullen sat at the far end, Sporty Howard two seats away on the left.

“Mornin’.” Steamboat spoke before he even saw who had come in. When he did, his mouth opened in surprise. He set a platter of fried meat down on the table and scurried back to the cookstove.

The men at the table glanced at Pack, then at Cullen, but continued to chomp their food. A big-bellied, florid-faced man banged his cup on the table for more coffee, and Steamboat hurried to fill it. Sporty Howard speared a biscuit with his knife and grinned at Cullen.

“Ya come to say good-bye, Pack?” Cullen’s eyes flicked over the faces of the men at the table, seeking support, then back at the giant standing on spread legs, his hands on his hips.

“Aye.”

For a moment Cullen’s pale blue eyes flashed a victory sign to Sporty Howard. Then a crafty gleam came into them when a blanket of silence covered the tension-filled room. Cullen came out of the chair and rested his hands on the table.

“Well, ya’ve said it. What’re ya waitin’ for?”

“I’m not going. You are.”

Pack heard the screen door open, but he didn’t take his eyes off Cullen. Instinctively he knew that it was Sam who stood against the wall beside the door. Only Sam would have entered in such a way as to not distract him.

Cullen took a deep breath, and the words exploded from him. “I ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

Still looking at Cullen, Pack spoke. “I’ve got no quarrel with the rest of you men. But as soon as you’ve finished eating, ride out and don’t come back.”

The florid-faced man started to object angrily. “I paid to stay here, by Gawd—”

“Cullen will give you your money back.”

“Like hell I will.” Cullen’s stunned silence had passed and blind anger took over.

“I’ll have my money back or I’ll nail yore ass to the floor. Ya said ya was owner here.” The man who spoke had sun-bleached hair and a narrow, sardonic face.

The words stung Cullen. His eyes flicked over the faces of the men and on to Pack.

“You ain’t the owner here. You—you ain’t nothin’ but the ole woman’s by-blow.”

The gun was in Pack’s hand before Cullen could blink an eye. He was a heartbeat away from death and he knew it. In the silence that followed no one moved. Cullen’s face paled, and he cursed himself for letting his anger control his words.

“I could shoot you down like the dog you are, but I’ll wait till you’re armed and do it legal.” Pack shoved his gun back into the holster. His eyes moved to Sporty Howard. “You got something to say?”

“Ain’t my fight.”

“It will be if you palm that knife.” He looked back at Cullen. “Be off this land in an hour. Aubrey and the boys will stay.”

“Ya backin’ off, Cullen?” The question came from one of the men.

“What about your plans to wed that redheaded bitch that’s been swinging her ass—”

With a move as powerful and sudden as a whirlwind, Pack swung an arm. His rocklike fist sent Sporty back over the bench, slamming him to the floor. He lay sprawled, his nose gushing blood. Pack reached him with one long stride, grabbed him by the nape of the neck and hauled him to his feet. The men moved quickly out of the way. Pack loomed over the smaller man like an angry giant and shook him viciously.

“You low life, egg sucking son of a bitch! The lady you’re talking about is my wife. If you want to keep that tongue in your head you’ll not mention her again. Understand?” Pack plucked the gun from Sporty’s holster, the knife from his scabbard and tossed them on the table. “Pick them up on your way out.” He shoved him toward the door.

His wife!
Cullen’s face was cold with suppressed fury and helplessness. He looked past Pack to where Sam Sparks leaned against the wall, seemingly relaxed, but his hand was hanging at his side.

“Mara Shannon wouldn’t wed you. She . . . wouldn’t.”

“She did. I run things now.”

“Ya ain’t jist gonna run us off!”

“Are you going to stop me? I wish to hell you’d try. I’d like to put a bullet in each kneecap, hipjoint and elbow, and watch you squirm before I put one between your eyes and blow your stupid brains out.”

“The men here’ll help me.” Cullen looked around at the men who were getting up from the table and heading for the door.

“They want no part of your fight. They’ve been using you like you’ve been using them. All they want from you is their money back. You’d better give it to them or you’ll find yourself hanging from a tree.”

“You’re not gettin’ away with this. I’ve been here five years—”

“Five years too long.”

“I’ll take Trav—”

“Go near him and I’ll kill you.”

“I’ve got horses and cattle. I built this bunkhouse and cookshack. I’m entitled to a share.”

“You’re entitled to nothing. You’ll leave here with nothing but your worthless hide and one horse. You’d have been gone long ago but for old Aubrey. My mother honored her wedding vows.”

“Pa’ll tell you that Shannon McCall wanted us to have this place.”

“You’re lying. Shannon McCall knew you for the worthless scum that you are. Stop your whining and get the hell out.”

Cullen stood his ground a moment longer, then turned to go. At the door he paused. “You’re not gettin’ away with this,” he repeated.

Pack watched the men go into the bunkhouse. When he turned back, Steamboat was pulling a pan of biscuits from the oven. Old Riley hovered near the cookstove.

“Where do you two fit in?” Pack asked.

“I work here for bed and board,” Steamboat answered.

“Me too.”

“Are you hiding out here?”

“Ya might say that. I got a wife in Ohio I’d just as soon not run into.”

“You can stay and cook for ten a month.”

Steamboat shrugged. “It’s more’n I was gettin’.”

“Eight a month for you, Riley.”

“I don’t need that much.”

“That’s what you’ll get and I’ll expect you to earn it. Where’s Aubrey?”

“In the bunkhouse—dead drunk.”

“Leave him there until the men are gone, then throw him in the horse tank to sober him up.”

“I ain’t playin’ nursemaid to no drunk,” Steamboat said flatly and waited.

Pack looked sharply at the slight, thin-haired man. Finally he nodded. “You’re right. It’s not your job. I’ll do it.”

He went to the porch to watch as the men carried their bedrolls to the corral. He watched as they saddled up and rode away. Cullen was among them.

Pack waited a few minutes before going to the bunkhouse. The place smelled like a boar’s nest. Spittoons were full, cigarette butts had been ground out on the floor, empty whiskey bottles were strewn about. Aubrey lay in a drunken stupor on one of the bunks. Pack went back to the cookshack.

“It’ll be your job, Riley, to clean up that bunkhouse. Aubrey will help you. You can start as soon as I get him sobered up.” He sat down at the table beside Sam. “Thanks for the backup, Sam.”

“Didn’t do nothin’.” Sam poured sorghum syrup over his biscuits. “I got so caught up in what ya was doin’, I let Cullen ride off with my board money.”

“You’re getting plumb careless, Sam. I’ll take some of that coffee now, Steamboat.”

*  *  *

Mara stood in the doorway and, with relief, watched Cullen and the other men ride away. She saw Pack go to the bunkhouse and then return to the cookshack. Her nerves and muscles were wound up tight and had been since the faint light of the new day appeared when she had heard the first boastful crow of the boss rooster in the yard. She had tried to reason that this was why she had married Pack. He was earning his half of her inheritance by getting rid of Cullen and his undesirable friends.

A half hour went by. She went to the stove and moved the coffeepot to a cooler part of the range. She had made fresh coffee thinking Pack would return soon. They would sit at the table and he would tell her what had taken place. She had been wrong again.

Mara tried to shove her thoughts to the back of her mind, but over and over again they rolled, like the turning of a wheel in her brain. She was mortified when she recalled his words.
Go back to bed and dream your silly schoolgirl
dreams. I’d find no pleasure in taking an unwilling woman.
How was she going to live in this house with this stranger who was her husband?