Mustang Annie (6 page)

Brett tried to concentrate on the beginnings of a straight he'd been dealt, but when Annie began readying for bed, the last thing he wanted to look at was a bunch of painted numbers. Not when there were more . . . fetching views to enjoy. It amazed him how, even after two full days of travel beneath the relentless sun, she could still look as fresh and lovely as if she'd just stepped out of a bath.

He regretted the comparison when his imagination immediately conjured a picture of Annie wearing nothing but the skin she'd been born with, every luscious inch of her glistening with moisture. . . .

“I'll take first watch tonight,” he announced abruptly.

The men looked up at him in surprise as he folded his cards and grabbed his rifle. Every last one of them knew he always took the three-to-six shift. Tonight he might just take full duty. Weariness didn't matter; he'd not get any sleep lying next to Annie anyway.

A short distance away from the remuda, Brett sank to the ground with a sigh, rested his rifle across his lap, and stared up at the stars. He didn't know how much longer he could take this torture—listening to the sounds she made, seeing her without touching her, smelling her without tasting her. . . .

Hell, if Annie gave him half a chance, he could show her pleasures beyond her wildest dreams. If there was anything Brett knew, it was women. Young, old, slender, plump, pale, dusky—they were all beautiful and all perfect and Brett hadn't met a one in fifteen years that he couldn't seduce or charm into his bed—often without even trying.

He'd gotten a late start down that road of delight. Most boys he knew got their first taste of pleasure at fourteen or fifteen. Brett hadn't been tall enough or strong enough or handsome enough. . . . His brow furrowed. In a sense, he'd been a lot like Dogie was now.

But all that changed in his twentieth summer, when two things had happened: his scrawny body had finally filled out, and he'd met the woman who'd made him a man.

Molly had been something, all right, he remembered with a fond smile. He'd won her contract in a game of faro, saving her from working one day longer in a slimy dock-side brothel. She'd returned the favor by teaching him ways of making love that would make even the boys back home blush. From that point forward, he'd perfected the art of seduction, and discovered that there was no more powerful a feeling than bringing pleasure to a woman, of watching her succumb to his touch, of making her feel cherished and adored.

The idea of introducing Annie to the skills he'd learned made his groin tighten and his imagination take a crazy spin.

Yep, there was only one way to end his suffering. He was just going to have to bed her.

Chapter 7

T
he deliciously sharp aroma of coffee and the sensation of being watched roused Annie the next morning. She slowly opened her eyes, only to find Corrigan crouched next to her bedroll, studying her through lowered lashes.

“Mornin', Annie.”

His voice, husky with sensual undertone, came to her straight from midnight dreams. She sat up abruptly and ran a hand over her hair, strangely self-conscious of the tangles.

“Thought you could use this.” He held out a tin cup, aromatic steam curling from the top.

“Thanks.”

“Sleep well?”

Obviously one of them had, she thought sourly. She rolled to the side and grabbed her boots, shaking them upside down before pulling them onto her feet. Then she marched toward a thicket of sagebrush. It didn't offer much in the way of privacy, but since his lewd scrutiny of the day before, she'd taken to dressing behind whatever shield she could find.

When Annie emerged moments later and approached the remuda, she found Chance saddled and ready. She waylaid Dogie with a hand to his sleeve. “Did you saddle my horse?”

His glance flicked from her to Chance then back to her again. “No, Ace did it.”

Corrigan?
Corrigan had saddled her horse? What was going on? First the coffee this morning, now the tending of her mare. . . .

What had gotten into him?

The question plagued Annie as they made their way south. Every time she turned around, Corrigan seemed to be right there. Sometimes he'd wink. Sometimes he'd study her with that intense curiosity that set her nerves on edge. Always he'd be wearing that secretive smile. She felt it chipping away at her senses and her defenses.

Even now the memory of his shameless grin had the power to awaken sensations long dead—a lightness in her head, a fluttering in her belly, a thickening of her blood. . . .

What did he want from her?

They reached McClellan's Creek around midday and stopped to rest the horses. Annie dismounted, feeling stiff and sticky and covered with grit from head to toe. The sight of the creek was too inviting to resist, so after tending to Chance, she grabbed a piece of flannel and a chunk of soap from her saddlebags and headed upstream.

Blooming black-eyed susans, yellow-petaled broomweed and shady cottonwoods lined banks littered with rocks and natural debris. Annie pushed her way between two slender trunks—

And came to a sudden stop.

Her eyes slammed shut, and she spun away from the sight of Corrigan wading in the creek, stripped down to a pair of short-handled underwear.

Then curiosity got the better of her.

Hidden behind the cottonwoods and brush, Annie allowed herself to look at him—really look at him—without fear of getting caught. The water level reached just to the band of white cotton below his navel. A line of damp hair extended up the center of his lean, rippled abdomen and ended between chiseled pectorals. Slick with moisture and caressed by sunshine, each muscle, each tendon stood out in stark relief, making Annie painfully aware how long it had been since she'd felt a man's flesh beneath her fingers.

When he reached midstream, he sank into the waist high water and lay backward. As he back-paddled across the surface, water rippled beneath him and above him, clinging to the tanned cords of his arms.

Any man with a body like that should be outlawed.

“Hey, Annie.”

Annie whirled around, her hand to her chest. “Damn it, Dogie! Don't ever sneak up on some-body like that.”

“Whatcha lookin' at?”

When Dogie tried to peer around her, she side stepped and blocked his path. He slanted to the right, and she blocked his path again. His brows narrowed over the bridge of his nose.

“It's nothing—just a snake.”

“Really?”

Annie should have known better than to dangle such enticing bait in front of a young boy. She caught him by the collar just as he tried dodging passed her. “You're too late. It already slithered into the water.”

“Dad-gum it, I always miss the good stuff.”

“What are you doing out here, anyway?”

“Lookin' for Ace. You ain't seen him, have ya?”

More than she'd ever planned, she thought. Sudden color rose in her cheeks. “Uh, no,” she stammered. “Maybe h-he went scouting.”

“Naw, his horse is still here.”

“Well, I'm sure he'll turn up.” Clutching her clothes in one arm, she used her free hand to steer Dogie away from the creek. “Come on. We better get back to camp before the master has to come searching for us.” Her bath would have to wait; for certain she'd not get into that water now.

Even so, it took every ounce of willpower Annie had not to take one last peek through the trees.

 

The days passed in a blur, one blending into the other. In an effort to forget the scene at McClellan's creek, Annie poured all her concentration into watching the land for signs of the horses. Corrigan hadn't given any indication of knowing that she'd spied on him so shamelessly. Still, she maintained her distance from him. Unfortunately no matter how far she kept herself from him, she couldn't seem to escape his piercing eyes or knowing grin.

Damn it, what did he
want
from her?

A sudden thought had Annie's heart stammering. How did she know the horses they were chasing even existed? What if it was all a ruse? All she had was the word of a cardsharp and his cronies, and Annie knew good and well that Corrigan's men would follow him to hell if he ordered it. What if he already knew of the bounty on her head, and was using the horses as a ploy to lead her to the law?

But . . . why would a man of such obvious wealth go through all this trouble for a measly two-hundred dollars? It just didn't make sense.

Then, an even more horrid thought occurred—what if
they
had sent him?

“Señorita.”

Jolted, Annie looked over at Emilio, who held a gloved hand up, bidding her to wait. He'd dropped back to ride with her earlier that afternoon. Until now they'd not exchanged a single word, and Annie suspected Corrigan had sent him to guard her so she'd not
distract
him.

She followed his gaze and recognized Corrigan loping toward them on Fortune. “Do you still have that little pea-shooter on you?” he asked, reining in.

For a moment Annie was tempted to keep the element of surprise on her side and deny the Smith and Wesson in her boot. But the set of his jaw warned her that it was a serious question that demanded a serious answer. “I always have it with me.” Maybe it was better he knew up front that she'd never be caught defenseless. “Why?”

“Keep it handy. Emilio,
ven conmigo.
Annie, you wait here.”

“What's going on?” she demanded.

“There's something up ahead. It's probably nothing, but I'd rather be safe than sorry.”

Corrigan and Emilio rode ahead to investigate while Annie and the others stayed behind, weapons drawn, all senses on alert, none forgetting that Comanche could appear out of thin air. Though most of them had been driven north onto reservations, renegades still prowled the area.

Several heart thumping minutes later, a loud whistle rent the still air, the signal that it was safe to proceed. Corrigan met them halfway. “It's just a supply wagon.”

“Injuns?” Flap Jack asked.

“Busted axle. We might as well pitch camp,” Corrigan said. “It's early, but it looks like we'll be in for a gully washer before nightfall.”

Annie glanced up. The sky was pure blue, not a cloud to be seen, but she remembered how quickly that could change. Granddad used to say, “If you don't like the weather now, little filly, wait five minutes.”

“How are you holding up?” Corrigan asked of her after the men rode ahead.

Like she'd been put through the wringer and hung out to dry.
But there was no way she'd admit that the heat was wearing her down fast. Taking in the rings of sweat under his arms, the lines of weariness around his eyes, she gained some satisfaction that he was feeling its affects as well. “I could outlast you in the saddle any day of the week.”

“Why, Annie, that sounds almost like a challenge.”

Annie frowned. It did, now that he mentioned it.

“How about it?”

“How about what?”

“A race to the wagon. Winner cooks supper tonight.”

She shouldn't. She absolutely, positively should not let him goad her into accepting another challenge—especially after the outcome of the last one. Not only was it too damned hot, but Chance, for all her heart, wasn't built for speed the way his Arabian was. Yet if she
did
win . . . well, the image of Corrigan eating crow was just too tempting to ignore.

“You're on, tenderfoot. Let's see if you can ride as well as you gloat.” She lashed the end of a rein against Chance's flank. “Haw!”

The mustang immediately jumped to obey, then quickly extended into a full gallop. Muscles stretched and tightened, breaths blew hot and aggressive. Her hooves churned up prairie grass, patches of yellow flowers and sandy soil.

Annie tasted the heat of the race on her tongue, felt the sweetness of freedom in her blood. How long had it been since she'd raced for the sheer joy of it, and not to escape capture?

From behind, the vibration of the ground grew stronger, and she knew Corrigan was gaining on her. She leaned low over Chance's neck, adrenaline pumping through her veins like wildfire. Wind blurred her eyes and ripped at her hair, sending her hat sailing behind her.

In the periphery of her vision, she saw Corrigan's men draw their horses to a halt. Dogie stood in his stirrups and shouted something she couldn't make out, but that sounded like encouragement.

Chance kept pace with Corrigan's stallion for a good half mile before the Arabian started pulling ahead. Annie lifted her weight from the saddle and bowed closer to Chance's neck, urging her to greater speed. But the mare, for all her heart, just didn't have the fleetness of the other breed.

Rather than kill her horse over a stupid bet, Annie accepted defeat and allowed Chance to slow. She patted the mare's sweaty hide, giving praise for her effort, while around her cheers and whistles erupted.

With a disgusted frown, she watched Corrigan accept the congratulations from his men. “It's all right, Chance. You gave it all your heart,” she consoled her mare.

At the wagon, Annie dismounted and walked Chance in a circle to cool her down, patting her neck, crooning her approval while the men scavenged through the spilled crates.

“Hey, look!” Dogie cried. “Canned peaches—and sourdough batter!” He held up a rusty tin can and a Mason jar half full of a thick, pasty substance. “We hit the jackpot here, Ace. Someone lost themselves a whole dad-gummed chuck wagon!”

She knew without looking the instant Corrigan came up behind her. The air fairly crackled. A tingle began at the base of her back, crept up her spine, spread across her nape. His musky scent caressed her like a warm prairie wind.

Bracing herself, she looked over her shoulder and found him standing too close, his golden brown hair tousled by the wind, his green eyes glittering with the same excitement that flowed through her veins.

“Looks like I won again, Annie.”

“With me cooking supper? I wouldn't be so sure about that.”

 

Emilio stirred his fork around his plate.

Flap Jack sniffed his meal suspiciously, then raised his head. His bushy brows lifted, his lip curled.

Wade Henry bravely tried a bit.

Only Dogie ate with gusto, obviously not minding the undercooked beans or charred chunks of salt pork swimming in the greasy film.

Annie chanced a glance at Corrigan. She might have been insulted at the sight of him chewing on a piece of jerky if it weren't so amusing. Oblivious to her study, he brought the strip to his mouth. Annie found herself mesmerized as he parted his lips, pushed the jerky inside, and tore off the tip with straight, white teeth.

Annie quickly looked away before he caught her watching him—again. Her face flamed anew at the memory of the last time she'd gotten caught staring at him. She still couldn't believe she'd looked at the front of his britches. Worse, that he'd seen her doing it. She'd never been so mortified in her life.

“That was some mighty fine supper, Miss Annie,” Dogie said, setting his plate aside, then wiping his mouth with his sleeve.

She couldn't help but smile. “Thanks, Dogie.”

“That was some race, too. Ain't seen so much excitement around here since Flap Jack had the tro—”

“Dogie . . .” Corrigan warned.

The boy ducked his face. “I ain't seen anything like it in a long spell.”

“I lost, Dogie,” Annie reminded him. The point still rubbed her raw. She'd known better than to let him cajole her into a second wager, yet she'd accepted it anyway.

“I know, but . . . you were amazing! You looked like the wind. Where'd you learn to ride like that?”

Annie hesitated a second before deciding that the truth couldn't hurt. “My granddad.”

“Did he race horses?”

She exchanged a look with Mr. Henry, then glanced at Brett. He lay on his side across the fire with one ankle crossed over the other, watching her, waiting.

“He had a talent for it,” she finally answered. “I suppose I learned it from him.”

“Did you learn how to bust broncs from him too?”

“No, that came later.” Putting an end to his barrage of questions, Annie rocked to her feet, grabbed her plate and cup, and left.

“See what you did?” Flap Jack scolded Dogie. “You got her all upset.”

“What? I was just curious!”

“You know better than to be asking so many questions.”

The chiding faded as Annie moved to the edge of the alkali puddle they'd camped by and plunged her dishes into the water, trying to keep her hands busy, trying to keep the panic at bay.