Mustang Annie (8 page)

Wade Henry chose that moment to appear in the opening of the lean-to, mud up to his knees, his eyes wild. “Ace, somethin's wrong with Annie.”

Brett dropped the kettle. Pushing past Wade Henry, he raced across the sodden ground, slipping and sliding all the way to the wagon. He yanked Dogie out of the way, gripped the tail gate, and peered inside. In the dim interior, he saw Annie's slight figure curled up in the corner, whimpering like a wounded animal. “Annie? What happened to her?” he demanded of Wade Henry.

“I don't know—I heard noises, and when I came to check on her, I found her like this.”

Brett clambered over the end board to her side. His hands hovered above her helplessly. Was she ill? Had he been pushing her too hard? She'd been fine just a few hours ago. . . . “Annie, are you awake?”

A skein of pale hair shielded her face. Needing to see her face, he brought his hand over her shoulder. The instant his fingers grazed her cheek, she wrenched herself around.

Brett fell backward on his heels. His heart dropped to his stomach as he stared down the barrel of a Smith and Wesson six-shooter. “Jesus Christ . . . Annie, put that thing away!”

The order was met with an ominous click.

“Get away from me,” she said, her voice as cold and deadly as the weapon in her hand.

“Annie . . .” he croaked, lifting his hands palm-out on either side of his head. The last time she'd pulled a weapon on him, he'd been more surprised by her nerve than afraid she'd shoot him. This time he knew without a doubt she'd pull the trigger. “What are you doing?”

She held the small revolver steady and firm, her mouth tight, her cheeks white, her blue eyes almost black.

Only then did Brett realize that she didn't see him, but something—or someone—else. Lowering his hands with agonizing slowness, Brett kept his gaze locked with hers, willing her to snap out of whatever spell had her in its grip.

“Annie, it's Brett.” He cautiously stretched his hand toward her. “Give me the gun, sweetheart.”

She tightened her grip on the trigger.

Brett paused. Sweat broke out on his brow. “I'm not going to hurt you, darlin'. Just give me the gun.”

A thousands heartbeats passed before the glaze slowly receded from her eyes. Her arms went limp; her shoulders drooped.

He slowly pried the gun from her loose fingers and set it behind him, out of her reach. “Christ. You scared the liver out of me.”

She bowed her head. Shaking hands lifted to her brow. “The biscuits were burning,” she whispered. “Oh, God, I'm going to be sick . . .”

Brett grabbed the first container within reach—which, unfortunately, was Wade Henry's hat. He sat helplessly by as Annie purged the contents of her stomach, wanting to stroke her hair, rub her back . . . something. Yet he was afraid he'd make things worse if he touched her.

What could have happened? Had she eaten something bad? But none of the others felt poorly. Had the heat gotten to her?

Questions, questions, and no answers.

Her shoulders finally went limp, and the retching stopped.

Brett gently took her arm. “Come on, let's get you some fresh air.”

“Don't . . . touch me.” She flung off his hand and scrambled toward the front of the wagon, out of his reach. “Don't
ever
touch me.”

The venom in her voice made Brett's blood run cold. He lifted his palms in supplication. “Annie, I'm just trying to help.”

She turned on him with fire in her eyes. “God dammit, Corrigan—can't you get it through your thick head? I don't want your help! I've survived this long without it and unfortunately, I'll go on surviving. So stop treating me like some fragile flower, and start treating me like you would any other member of this outfit.”

Brett felt the color leave his face. Was that what she thought he was doing? Treating her like a fragile flower? And here he thought he was being a friend.

Obviously Annie didn't need one of those.

He gave her a brittle smile. “As you wish.”

When he climbed outside, he found the men waiting with their hats in their hands and worry in their eyes.

“She okay, Ace?” Dogie asked.

At that moment, Annie dropped out of the wagon, paused to glare at Brett, then raced through the mud toward the horses.

“What did you say to her?” Henry demanded, accusation thick in his raspy voice.

Brett watched Annie flee, wanting to go after her so bad his teeth ached. He replayed the incident in his mind, and still couldn't see anything he'd done to make her react so wildly. “Nothing.”

“You musta said something—she tore outta this wagon like a bat out of the church belfry.”

“I didn't say anything!” The volume and force of his denial echoed across the prairie and bounced back, slamming into Brett's chest with such force it nearly knocked him backward. “Get the men rounded up. We've got horses to find. And for crying out loud, do something with those damned biscuits.”

 

Rain fell throughout the day in a steady drizzle that matched everyone's mood. Annie led the search party, keenly aware that Corrigan and the others traveled some distance behind her. Nausea continued to sit in her belly like liquid lead, the stench of burning biscuits as fresh in her nostrils now as it had been this morning—as fresh as it had been that morning four years ago. . . .

 

“Annie, me and Bandit are going to round up the horses,” Koda said, setting two sets of saddlebags near the front door.

“Don't take too long,” she said, sliding a pan of biscuit dough into the oven. “Breakfast is almost ready.”

Strong arms wrapped around her waist. Moist lips pressed against her neck. “I can think of something I'd rather be eating.”

Smiling, Annie let her head fall back. “If you keep this up, we'll never find that herd.”

He nibbled her earlobe and sent need careening through her nerve endings. “The herd can wait thirty minutes. I can't.”

She turned into his arms and covered his mouth with hers. Half their clothes were already unfastened when a sudden riot of screaming shattered the mood.

Sekoda's entire body went alert. Releasing her, he moved on silent moccasined feet toward the window and drew the curtain aside.

“What is it?”

“Something's in the corral scaring the horses.”

Annie peered over his shoulder through the window. The mustangs they'd brought in just last month were milling in a tight circle, as wild as the day they'd found them.

Sekoda grabbed the shotgun from above the mantle. Annie grabbed the only other weapon in the house, an iron skillet, and followed him to the door.

“Stay here, Annie.”

“I'm going with you. Those are my horses, too.”

He paused a moment to brush his finger down her cheek. “Sweet Annie. If I'm worried about you, I won't be able to concentrate on what's out there.”

He didn't make it halfway to the corral before a blood-chilling battle cry rent the air. The horses burst through the fencing; a painted-faced warrior charged toward him, a rifle raised high above his feathered head. Sekoda took aim and fired. No sooner did the Indian tumble off his horse than another rider bore down on her husband. With a mighty swing of his rifle, he clubbed Sekoda across the head.

“Nooo!”

She could think of nothing beyond reaching Sekoda, and getting him out of the path of the stampeding horses. She raced into the yard, slid her arms under his and dragged him into the house.

Annie sat on the floor of their cabin, Sekoda's head in her lap, blood gushing from the back of his skull. The smell of biscuits burning in the oven twisted with the taste of fear and confusion in her mouth as she pressed a wad of her dress against her husband's wound. Why would Comanche raid the property of one of their own? They'd been living in peace for over a year, with Annie and Sekoda extending them countless gestures of hospitality and friendship.

None of it made sense to Annie—until the door opened.

A hulking figure blocked the sun. She couldn't see his face, but his voice came at her from the deepest bowels of hell.

“Why, howdy, Annie.” A match flared, casting a hellish glow on his smooth, rounded features.

“What do you want?” she whispered, fear choking the breath from her lungs.

He smiled. “Everything you've got.”

 

Jerking her head up, Annie found herself not in the flaming cabin of her nightmares, but on one continuous mesquite flat, dotted here and there with patches of open prairie. She swallowed the lump in her throat and blinked away the blurry film from her eyes. He'd taken it, too. Everything she'd had—her hopes, her dreams, her reason for living. Gone.

The worst thing had been Corrigan's compassion. She'd never wanted to be held so badly by anyone in her entire life as she'd wanted to be held by him. Yet if it hadn't been for him awakening her emotions, the nightmares wouldn't have returned in the first place.

The time had come to get this job done, she decided with a firm set of her jaw and a flick of the reins. If she didn't find any signs of the horses by the time they reached the Palo Duro, she'd leave and take her chances on her own.

Chapter 9

T
he tension between Annie and Brett grew thick enough to carve with a cleaver. Brett kept his distance as they rode, but it didn't stop him from watching her, from worrying about her. Again and again he tried to make sense of her outburst. It had something to do with burning biscuits, he'd gathered that much. And it had something to do with whatever she was running from. If she would only talk to him, trust him with her secrets. . . .

But Annie didn't talk, and she didn't trust. That grated the most; had he ever given her reason to
mis
trust him? Hadn't he been straight with her from the start?

By the time they reached the South Fork of the Red River, his mood hadn't improved. Swollen from the recent downpour, brackish water churned its way downstream and licked at the clay banks with rapid force, as if warning trespassers away.

It reminded him of Annie; calm and clear until a storm hit, when it lashed out at anything in its path.

“Ace, you want us to pitch camp till the water level drops?” Wade Henry asked.

Brett stared grimly at the water. “No, we're running out of time. We don't even know if we're on the right trail.”

“One more day won't make much of a difference,” Annie said.

“If I don't catch those fillies before that stallion ruins them, I'll lose my contract.”

“What is so damned important about this contract? You obviously aren't hurting for money. Buy yourself more horses.”

“Not everything is about money. Sometimes it's about trying to make an honest living. But then, you wouldn't understand that, would you, Annie?”

Brett regretted throwing her own words up in her face the instant they were out. He'd been very careful not to mention what he knew of Annie's nefarious past, partly because he was in no position to cast stones, and partly because he didn't want her bolting on him.

But damn it, she had a way of making him do or say things he wouldn't normally do or say.

Her stricken expression remained in place as he turned to his men. “Flap Jack, start scouting upstream for a place to cross. I'll head down-stream. The rest of you stay with Annie.”

“Can I go with you, Ace?”

He looked at Dogie, at the hope in his green eyes. Had he ever been that young? That eager?

Once maybe. Until the day life had crushed both under its merciless heel.

With a nod, he agreed to Dogie's company. They rode in silence along the banks, studying the churning waters for a safe place to cross. After a while, the quiet became too quiet.

Brett looked back, just to be sure Dogie was still with him. Sure enough, the kid rode his pinto a horse-length behind, sitting as tall in the saddle as his four-and-a-half foot frame would allow.

He couldn't ever remember being alone with the boy before; from the time Dogie had showed up on his ranch, he'd been under Henry's direction. Now that it was just the two of them, Brett felt vaguely unsettled. He didn't know how to act around kids. His brothers had been much older than him—hell, he'd been an uncle before his fourth birthday.

“You ever drive horses across a creek before?” he asked, just for something to say.

“No, sir. Didn't know anything about horses till I started working for you. What are we watching for?”

“A place where the water doesn't swirl. There are undercurrents that can unbalance a horse. You don't want anything too smooth, though, or you'll find yourself either in water too deep to swim or sinking in quicksand.”

They continued on, the horses picking their way through the weeds that grew along the banks. The rushing current camouflaged the sounds of the winds whistling through the cottonwoods. His brow wrinkled. He hoped Annie was all right. Not that he didn't think Emilio or Henry capable of watching out for her . . .

Why was he worrying about her, anyway? She'd made it clear that she didn't want his worry—or anything else. And that, he finally admitted, was what really stuck in his craw. There was nothing more loathsome than failure, yet everywhere he turned with her, he wound up with a mouthful. Three days he'd spent, making a fool out of himself trying to catch her notice. He'd used every approach in the book and he was no closer to having Annie in his bedroll than the day they met. For every forward stride he made with her, she shoved him a mile back.

He hadn't felt this . . . insignificant since he'd been a young boy following his brothers around the farm, wanting nothing more than to be a part of their adventures, only to have them swat him away like a pesky bug.

Hell, his hired hands got more attention from Annie than he did.

Why was he going through so much trouble to please a woman who could hardly abide his presence, much less his touch? A woman who, once this job was completed, would leave him without a backward glance?

Maybe she was right; maybe he should start treating her like any other member of his outfit. Thinking of her as one of his men would certainly douse this flame she kindled inside him.

But thinking of Annie as a man was a hell of a lot easier said than done, especially at night, when he'd lie watching the even rise and fall of her back, or when the snores of his men couldn't drown out the soft sounds she made in sleep, or when her sweet fragrance rose above those of horse and sweat and earth.

Hell, the only thing manly about Annie Harper was her grit.

“Hey, Ace, hear that?”

Diverted, Brett glanced back and noticed Dogie dawdling under the branches of a tree. The sound of buzzing reached him.

“I wonder if they've got any honey,” he said, guiding the pinto closer.

“Those aren't honey bees, those are hornets. Get away from there before you get stung.”

No sooner were the words out of his mouth than Dogie jumped back and slapped his neck. A second later, the buzzing escalated to an angry hum.

Hornets swarmed from the tree like Comanche on the warpath. The pinto screamed; Dogie screamed.

“Damn it!” Brett spurred Fortune toward Dogie, who danced in a circle, batting frantically at himself.

“Ace! They're gettin' me, they're gettin' me!”

Action ruled over thought as Brett rode into the stinging attack, swung his arm around Dogie's waist, and swept him out of his saddle and into his own. A swift jab of his heels to Fortune's flanks sent the horse barreling into the water. Brett leaned over the side and released the reins, dumping himself and the boy into the murky depths.

Only after his head broke surface did Brett begin to worry that he'd jumped straight from the frying pan into the fire. With Dogie sputtering and coughing over his arm, Brett fought the current and dragged both of them toward the bank.

“What happened?” Annie cried, bringing her mustang to a skidding halt.

“We heard screamin',” Henry said as he and Emilio reached to pull Dogie up the slick bank.

Brett was beyond listening or explaining. All he could hear was the sound of his own heart kicking inside his chest and Dogie's screams as he battled the hornet attack.

Once he and Dogie were on dry land again, he grabbed the boy by the shoulders and gave him a stern shake. “You goddamn fool! What the hell did you think you were doing? I told you to stay away from there!”

“I didn't think—”

“That's right—you didn't think. You did as you damn well pleased and look what happened.” He paused and dragged in a deep breath. “Just . . . get the hell out of my sight.”

For a moment the kid stared at him, his eyes moist, his lower lip quivering. Then he tore away from the creek.

Brett almost went after him. The urge hit him hard and fast, like a maverick's kick to the gut. Yet his feet seemed rooted to the spot, and before he could command them to move, Henry followed in the kid's wake.

Brett shook off the lingering urge and took stock of his surroundings. A hornet or two still cut through the air but most of the others were gone.

He felt Annie's gaze on him, hard and burning, and when he finally dared to look at her, her expression was pure condemnation.

With a curse, he spun away. What else had he expected? Her understanding? Her empathy?

He flopped down at the edge of the creek and whisked his shirt over his head. His back stung in a dozen places where the hornets had speared him. Filling his hand with a glob of wet earth, he then slapped it on several welts on his chest.

He should have known bringing Dogie along would be a mistake. The boy was too impulsive. Always getting into mischief, always pulling pranks on people. Always thinking danger was a toy to be played with.

Brett scooped up another handful of mud and slapped it on his upper arm. Why hadn't the kid just
listened?

“Didn't your mama ever teach you that it isn't smart to stir up a hornet's nest?”

Brett's hand froze in the process of reaching for a sting on his shoulder blade. A surprised glance over his shoulder brought Annie into view. He'd have figured she'd be tending to Dogie.

It surprised him more when she lowered herself to her knees behind him. A second later he felt the cooling relief of mud coat one of the welts at the center of his back.

Her touch was so tender as she smeared more than a dozen stings that he couldn't speak. Of all the ways he'd imagined Annie laying her hands on him, not one fantasy had involved the dredges of South Fork. It aroused him nonetheless, and he wanted to take her right there.

With his emotions strung as tightly as they were, though, he wouldn't be gentle, and Annie deserved more than a rough tumble in the muck.

So he kept his fists tightly clenched, and suffered the torture of her touch in silence.

After a while, a voice of soft steel broke through the hush. “You didn't have to be so hard on him, you know.”

Brett stiffened. She always took up for the boy. “Give him an inch, he'll take a mile. My men will always know who ramrods this outfit.”

“How can any of them forget, with you shoving it down their throats every time they turn around?”

Brett swung to face her. Her eyes glittered like wildfire and a vein in her neck throbbed. “Who the hell made you their champion?”

“Who the hell made you their keeper?”

“They did,” he spat. “Each and every one of them—from the moment they showed up on my ranch looking for a way to put food in their bellies and a roof over their head. There isn't a man in my outfit that doesn't know what's expected of him.”

“And if they don't meet your expectations, there will be hell to pay. Dogie's human, he made a mistake. Not everyone can be as perfect as you.”

Her sarcasm didn't escape Brett—nor any of the men standing nearby, listening to the exchange.

Brett sharply averted his gaze toward the horizon. His jaw clenched; his breaths came hot and heavy. No one talked to him the way Annie did and got away with it. No one. And if he started making allowances for her, he'd have every man in his outfit believing him a push-over. “I'll make a deal with you—I won't tell you how to handle your horses, and you don't tell me how to handle my men.”

“Fine,” she snarled. “But you'll never catch me kowtowing to you the way they do.”

No, he didn't expect he would, Brett thought, watching her spin away. Annie had a will of iron that couldn't be bent or shaped, no matter how hot he stoked the fire.

And therein lay the problem.

Her smart-assed attitude and the rebellious glitter in her eyes drove Brett passed reason.

Christ. He couldn't take this anymore. He grabbed his hat and strode toward Fortune. He had to get out of here, for a little while at least, because he had a feeling that if he didn't get his emotions under control soon, he'd wind up hurting somebody.

 

Her throat tight and burning, Annie examined the mud-smeared stings covering Dogie's scrawny back. Emilio and Henry had urged her to tend to Corrigan while they saw to Dogie, and as far as she could tell, he hadn't fared nearly as badly as Corrigan. God, the man's back had been all but covered with stings. Even now she felt pain to her own flesh at the thought of the insects attacking him.

Why his pain would affect her so strongly she couldn't say, nor did she want to examine it. It was so much better—and so much easier—to deal with him when they were going head to head. At least then, she didn't feel this compelling need to hold him. To touch him. To curl herself around him and protect him from the world's evils, the way he'd protected Dogie from the swarm.

“Miss Annie?”

“Hmm?” She lifted her gaze and found Dogie watching her through serious eyes.

“I owe you.”

Her brows furrowed. “What for?” she asked, her voice unusually raspy.

“I heard you standin' up for me back there. I ain't had anyone do that in a long time.”

She swallowed the lump in her throat and pulled Dogie's shirt down over his back. “One of these days you're gonna have to learn to stand up for yourself.”

“He'll fire me,” Dogie replied softly. “I ain't got no place left to go.”

Annie grimaced in sudden irritation at the power Corrigan seemed to hold over his men. “There's always someplace else to go.”

Dogie lifted soulful green eyes to her. “For you, maybe. Everyone wants you, Annie. Even Ace.” He ducked to fasten the buttons of his plaid shirt. “Especially Ace.”

She stared at Dogie's bent head with a frown. Sensations came crashing down upon her—of the warmth she felt each time Corrigan looked at her, of the tingles down her spine when she heard his voice. Of more intimate reactions when he came too near. . . .

If Corrigan's desires were so obvious that a thirteen-year-old could recognize them . . . were hers?

 

Sage Flat was like a dozen other range towns thrown up to cater to the needs of local cowboys: four brothels, two watering holes, and a livery lined the disreputable side of the dusty dirt road; a hotel, barbershop, and general merchandisery constituted the respectable side.