Maverick Heart (27 page)

She wasn’t really surprised when Tom sat down cross-legged beside her. At least two of the kittens quickly climbed onto his trouser legs.

Freddy held a ginger kitten against her cheek. “They’re absolutely adorable, don’t you think?”

“So are you,” Tom said.

Freddy was used to flattery and accepted it as her due. She batted her eyelashes at Tom, as she would have at one of the English lords who had surrounded her at many a
ton
ball and said, “I’m not half as soft as they are.”

“Let me see.” Tom reached out and caressed her cheek. Freddy drew back, startled. No
ton
gentleman had ever dared so much.

“You’re much softer than the cat,
niña
,” Tom said.

She managed a laugh, still certain she could handle the mild flirtation, and not a little flattered that an older man—Tom had to be at least ten
years Rand’s senior—could find her attractive. Of course, she thought, refusing to let conceit take root, it was easy to be the center of attention when you were the only unattached female around.

She didn’t count Verity because Miles had already claimed her. She hadn’t sorted out their relationship just yet, but she had figured out from things she heard them discuss that they must have known each other very well sometime in the past.

While she was somewhat thrilled by Tom’s praise, she was able to put it in perspective. “Thank you, Mr. Grimes,” she said primly. “Try to imagine me with ears and whiskers, and you’ll see the kitten does a better job of looking cute.”

Tom smiled. “You’re clever, too. I like that.”

The compliment appealed more than it should have. Intelligence wasn’t much prized in an Englishwoman. Females were valued more for their bloodlines and their ability to breed an heir. Unknowingly, Tom Grimes had hit upon the perfect appeal to her vanity. She was willing to let him tell her more about how wonderful and intelligent she was. She was thinking it was too bad Rand couldn’t be hearing all this. Then he might realize she could make up her own mind about what she wanted to do with her life.

“What else do you like about me?” she asked.

He laughed. “That you’re daring, maybe even reckless.”

She frowned. That didn’t sound like much of a compliment for an English lady. But, she conceded, it also hit close to the truth. Her indulgent
parents had perhaps allowed her to act in too forward a manner much too often.

One of the kittens had climbed onto her thigh, and Freddy hissed as its claws dug in.

Tom reached out to free the kitten from the denim. However, when the cat was free, his hand remained.

“Please take your hand off me,” Freddy said in a firm, quiet voice.

His hand tightened on her thigh.

Freddy clambered to her feet. “I think I’ll go back to the house now.”

Tom rose at the same time, caught her wrist, and swung her into his embrace. She doubled up her arms between them, but he held her firmly against him. With only denim to separate them, she could feel the blunt ridge of hardness against her belly. It frightened her more than she wanted him to know. It seemed she had completely underestimated the uncivilized nature of this place.

She met Tom’s gaze and said, “If I scream, every man on this ranch will come running.” As threats went, it seemed powerful enough.

He remained undaunted. “Scream. I’ll say you saw a rat and came running to me. What else could I do but offer you comfort?”

Her eyes narrowed. “Rushland will kill you.”

He laughed aloud. “That tenderfoot? I’d put a bullet between his eyes before he got within ten feet of me.”

Freddy felt a chill slide down her spine. One look at the merciless eyes in Tom’s handsome face
convinced her he wasn’t just talking. He would do it. “Miles will—”

“The Old Man is too busy with his own pretty lady to bother about you and me. How about a kiss?”

“No!” She turned her head, and his lips landed on her cheek. She shoved hard against him with her fists, twisting her head first one way and then the other to avoid his kisses. “Let me go!”

She didn’t scream, because she believed his threat. Rand wouldn’t have a chance against him.

“Let her go.”

Tom released her and took a step back. “This is none of your business, green pea,” he said with a malicious smile.

Freddy was at first relieved that Rand had come, then terrified at what might happen. “Be careful, Rand,” she warned. “Mr. Grimes threatened to shoot you!”

“Go back to the house, Freddy,” Rand said.

“But, Rand—”

“Do what I say!”

“You can’t order me around,” she answered sharply, frightened and alarmed by the deadly menace in Rand’s gray eyes and the killing light in Tom’s. “I’ll go where I like, when I like. And I plan to stay right here.”

Tom laughed. “If that was my filly, she’d go where she was reined.”

“I don’t belong to anyone,” Freddy retorted. “Nobody has the right to tell me what I can and can’t do.” That right was inviolable. Fighting for it
was what had gotten her into this mess in the first place.

“Hear that, green pea?” Tom said. “The little lady gave you your marching orders. Now skedaddle back to the ram pasture like a good little boy.”

“I have no intention of going anywhere before I teach you a lesson in manners.” Rand lifted his fists in a boxing stance.

Tom bent over and hooted with laughter. “If that isn’t the damnedest thing I’ve ever seen. A flat-heeled gunsel all puffed up like a banty rooster.”

Tom pulled his gun from the holster so fast Freddy didn’t see him do it. The lethal revolver was suddenly in his hand, pointed at Rand.

“I’m telling you to butt out,” Tom said in a brittle voice.

Rand paled, but he didn’t move a step in any direction. “If you’re going to shoot, shoot. Otherwise, put that thing away and defend yourself.”

“Why, you—”

The sound of another gun being cocked froze Tom in place.

“Put the gun down, Tom,” Miles said.

All three of them turned to the door of the barn where Miles stood with his Colt Peacemaker aimed at Tom’s heart. Verity’s frightened face showed beyond his shoulder.

“I said put the gun down.”

Tom slowly lowered his gun to the barn’s dirt floor.

“Kick it toward me.”

Tom did as he was ordered.

Miles leaned down to pick up the gun without taking his eyes off Tom and tucked it in his belt. Then he returned his gun to his holster. “If you two have some business to settle, you can do it now.”

“Miles—”

“Shut up, Verity,” Miles said.

“Rand—”

“Be still, Freddy,” Rand said.

“Step back and give them room to fight, Freddy,” Miles said.

Freddy backed her way across the straw-strewn floor to join Verity, who put an arm around her shoulder. It was questionable which of the two women was supporting whom. Freddy had a heightened awareness of her surroundings. The stench of manure, the incessant buzz of the flies, sunlight streaming in mottled golden shafts through cracks in the slatted wall, the stomp of a horse in one of the stalls.

“All right, Tom. You wanted to fight,” Miles said. “Here’s your chance.”

Something malevolent flickered in Tom’s dark eyes. Then he charged, butting his head into Rand’s stomach and knocking him backward into the dirt, sending his hat flying.

Nothing could have made Freddy leave, and yet it was difficult to watch the pounding Rand took in the first minutes of the fight. He was no match for the wily older man, who had apparently won his share of barnyard brawls.

Freddy wasn’t sure how the other cowhands found out about the fight, but they filtered in
through the door and stood watching as the two men locked in mortal combat. No one lifted a finger to help. No one—not even Miles—attempted to stop the fight.

Rand’s lip was cut and bleeding. One eye was swollen nearly shut. He seemed to be favoring his wounded shoulder.

Freddy felt her heart racing, felt the blood pounding in her temples. She felt sick inside that she might have been even the least bit responsible for provoking the fight. She was afraid for Rand. And for herself.

What if Tom won the fight and claimed her as his prize? What if Rand won and refused to have anything more to do with her?

Of the two alternatives, she found the latter more terrifying, because she had realized as she watched blood drip from Rand’s bruised and battered—and much beloved—face that she would die if he walked out of her life. The next time Rand asked her to marry him—and surely he would ask again—she was going to say yes.

Rand was losing the fight. His head ached, and his eyesight was blurred. He could barely keep his fists up to protect his face from the beating Tom was giving him. He had considered himself a good boxer at the club in London where he practiced, but he hadn’t counted on having dirt thrown in his eyes to blind him or on being kicked in the groin. This wasn’t two gentlemen enjoying a bout of fisticuffs. It was a war for survival.

Rand was too battered to feel humiliated, too tired to feel defeated. His body kept saying
Give up!
His mind kept answering
Never!

Then he saw an opening. Tom had gotten too confident, had lowered his guard. Rand swung for Tom’s chin with his right fist and connected with a loud
crack
. Tom reeled and shook his head. Rand
followed with a left and felt his knuckles split as he caught Tom squarely in the nose.

Blood gushed. Tom howled and grabbed his broken nose.

Rand punched him twice—right, left—in the belly, and Tom fell to his knees. Rand lifted his right one more time for a roundhouse to the temple that knocked Tom unconscious.

Rand stood there, his knuckles bruised and bleeding, his left eye swollen nearly shut, his body aching from a dozen blows, and wondered why he did not feel triumphant. He looked around the barn, searching for Freddy, his glance passing each of the cowboys gathered there. He saw neither condemnation nor admiration in their eyes, merely acceptance. It made him feel good in a way that applause or cheers in Gentleman John’s Boxing Saloon in London never had or could.

When he finally found Freddy in the crowd, he saw she was in tears.

“Don’t cry, sweetheart,” he said, opening his arms to her. She ran to him, and he grunted painfully as she collided with his battered body.

“Oh, Rand, I’m so sorry. I never thought—I didn’t know—” She lifted her hand to his face, but never touched the bleeding skin. “Look at your poor face. And your eye! Does it hurt?”

The question was so ridiculous it made him want to smile. Which was a mistake, because that
did
hurt. He carefully dabbed at the blood on his split lip. “Are you all right?” he asked.

“He only—” Freddy looked around at the circle
of grim faces, remembered how Miles had described the fate of any man in the West who touched an unwilling woman, and revised what she was going to say. Rand had beaten Tom senseless. She didn’t want to see any more blood shed. “He didn’t hurt me. I’m fine.”

Cookie had filled a pail with water from the horse trough outside the barn and dumped it on Tom to wake him up.

Tom sat up sputtering, groaned, and crossed his arms over his belly.

“Because you saved Rand and Freddy’s lives, I’m willing to forego hanging you,” Miles said. “But I want you off Muleshoe range before sundown. Cookie will have your wages ready when you ask for them.”

Cookie extended a hand to help Tom to his feet. “Come on, Tom. Time to hit the trail.”

Rand set Freddy behind him as Tom shot her a look of utter hatred.

“What about my gun?” Tom said.

Miles took it from his belt, emptied the cartridges into his palm, and handed the gun to Tom. “Good-bye, Tom.”

“She wanted it,” Tom said angrily.

Rand didn’t think he had the energy to lift his arm, but his fist connected with Tom’s mouth before the man knew what had hit him, and he landed on the ground again. Rand stood over the bleeding carcass and said through tight jaws, “Apologize to the lady.”

“Go to hell!”

Rand grabbed Tom by his shirt, yanked him to his feet, and drew back his fist.

“I’m sorry!” Tom yelped. “Damn it to hell! Let me go!” He jerked himself free.

Rand let him go, because it was all he could do to stay on his feet. He watched as Tom’s glance skipped from one to another of the men for any sign that they supported him, but they all had faces of stone. He had stepped over the boundary of accepted behavior and made himself an outlaw in their eyes.

In silence Tom crossed to the tack room, collected his saddle, bridle, and blanket, then headed out to the corral to retrieve his horse.

“Rand?”

Rand looked down. The hand Freddy had around his waist also held his hat. She was lifting his arm over her shoulder to help support him.

“Let’s get him into the house,” Verity said, coming to support Rand’s other side.

“You men have work to do,” Miles said. “Get to it.”

The cowboys disappeared.

Miles followed the two women as they bear-led Rand into the house. If he hadn’t been constrained by the eyes of the cowboys he knew were on them, he would have picked Rand up and carried him. He thought he might have to, after all, the way Rand was weaving as he walked.