Oklahoma kiss (7 page)

      
Feeling certain that the delicious aromas were coming from their chuckwagon, she turned her mount toward the woods. But the closer she got to the woods, the more puzzled she became.

      
Something was not quite right, but she could not put her finger on it. It was a feeling, a sensation, rather than anything tangible. Then she realized it was the lack of noise. Usually, by this time in the afternoon. Cookie, their old trail cook, could be heard for a mile or better, belting out a song in his raspy off-key voice. The area should have been stirring with trail hands clamoring for their supper. And there should have been voices, noises, anything but this stilted silence. Something was definitely wrong and she was determined to learn what it was.

      
A deep frown creased Blair's brow as she dismounted and tied the horse to a tree. "What am I thinking about?" she muttered under her breath. "Have I taken leave of my senses? Cookie would never set up camp so close to the ranch house. And the ranch hands must be working the ranges miles and miles away. Why did I assume the smells were coming from our chuckwagon? Because no one else should be on Townsend land—that's why!" she answered herself. "And whoever they are, I'll wager they're up to no good!"

      
Then, remembering Tillie's warning about nesters, Blair removed the rifle from the saddle boot and cautiously made her way deeper into the woods, heading directly toward the woodsmoke. She breathed a sigh of relief that she was wearing men's trousers, for the rustling of a skirt would have announced her approach like the blaring of brass trumpets. She was not frightened, but common sense told her that she must be very careful. There was no telling who had camped on their land or i what their intentions were. Warren had always made it well known that no one was welcome on Town-send land unless invited, and she doubted if that standing order had been changed over the years. Especially now that the land to the north would soon be filled with homesteaders.

      
If this intruder was up to no good, and if she was able to capture him, perhaps Warren would not be so angry over her returning home without his permission. It was something to think about.

      
Quietly making her way forward, her lips settled into a grim line when she saw the half-dressed steer hanging from a tree. There was nothing she hated worse than a thief, but to kill an animal and then leave it to spoil was intolerable. Anger overtook her common sense. Without considering the possibility of being outnumbered, Blair stayed with the tree line for cover, and circled around, her rifle ready.

      
Detecting a stronger scent of woodsmoke and cooking meat, she lowered herself to the ground and inched silently forward until the small camp came into view. Her relief was immediate that, apparently, it was inhabited by one man, and he was kneeling by the fire, his back to her.

      
She started to speak, then thought better of it. Even though she clearly had the advantage, the moment he heard an educated, feminine voice, he probably wouldn't take her orders seriously. More than likely the end results would be him escaping, or a killing, because he would surely underestimate her ability to handle a gun. And she did not want a man's blood on her hands, even if he was a dirty thief.

      
Then an idea began to form. Blair had met the notorious Belle Starr once before Warren had sent her back east. With her own ears she had heard the woman's speech and mannerisms change from that of a normal female to an uneducated-sounding ruffian. If she could disguise her voice and make herself sound uneducated and backwoodsy, the man might be inclined to take her more seriously than if he thought she was a lady fresh out of a finishing school. Blair glanced down at herself and grinned. She was certainly dressed for the part. If she didn't convince him, well, that was the risk she must take, and the time to act was now before her courage faltered.

      
Cocking the rifle and speaking in the most surly, backwoods voice she could muster, Blair said, "All right, mister, grab you a piece of the sky. I've got you covered. If I see your hand gettin' anywhere near a gun, I'll splatter your guts all over this clearing. Now, I want you to stand up and turn around —real slow like."

      
The sound of a hammer being drawn back echoed through the clearing like the booming of a cannon. Adam stiffened. Impotent anger raced through him. This was the second time in his life he had been caught by surprise. The fact that it had all happened in one day only added to his anger and humiliation.

      
Slowly raising his hands high into the air, he straightened, turned and faced her, being careful not to make any sudden moves. For all he knew ten rifles could have been pointed at him. One quick glance told him the girl was alone and that intensified his humiliation. Deliberately, he splayed his legs, assuming an arrogant stance.

      
Blair bit back a startled cry when he faced her. She could almost feel the physical violence coiled like a deadly snake within the man. There was such a lethal look about him, a sudden shock of fear coursed through her. But it was a fear that was exciting and stimulating. Her heart raced and her stomach fluttered strangely.

      
He was tall, standing well over six feet. He was garbed completely in tans and browns which blended easily into the early spring countryside. Tight, brown breeches were fastened at his waist by a leather belt adorned with an intricately carved silver buckle and a knife sheath from which a steel blade glittered wickedly —she thought such knives were often referred to as Arkansas toothpicks. His tan shirt was partially open, revealing the dark mat of hair across his broad, muscular chest. The vest he wore was made from soft, doeskin leather. Slung low on his hips was a leather gunbelt fully loaded with cartridges and the holsters, which were strapped to his thighs with leather thongs, bore two gleaming, black-barreled pistols with walnut stocks.

      
His countenance was strong, hard, impassive, his nose was straight, proud, and flaring, and on either side of his face were deep indentations. The thrust of his jaw was rigid: angry but self-assured. Although his dark brown hair was not shaggy or overly long, she judged that it had been at least a week since his face had seen a razor.

      
With a flutter of trepidation she realized he was scrutinizing her as closely as she was him. It wasn't so much that he was staring at her, it was his eyes that were so disturbing. They were the most magnetic, startling shade of gray she had ever seen, and they were unrelenting — intense and penetrating.

      
Blair could feel herself falling under a hypnotic spell and she knew she had to do something to break it. Nervously wetting her lips, she pulled her gaze from his and threatened with the rifle. "Just keep your hands in the air and stay real still. As long as you do that, my trigger finger won't get itchy."

      
"I’m not in the habit of making sudden moves when I’m staring down the wrong end of a gun," he said in a low voice. Even though Adam's words and actions were in compliance with her orders, his tone indicated his defiance.

      
Recalling a line that had impressed her in one of her most favorite penny dreadfuls, Blair gave an arrogant toss of her head and remarked dryly, "It depends on who's holding the gun whether it's the wrong end or not."

      
Deliberately taunting her, his lips twisted into a sneer, "That's exactly what I meant ... the wrong end of a rifle. Children shouldn't play with guns — they might get hurt. Tell me, how long do I have to stay like this?" He indicated his hands in the air.

      
Angered because he had called her a child and, realizing she had to do something to prove to him that she knew how to handle a gun, Blair did not dignify his remarks with an answer; instead, she aimed at a spot between his feet and fired. To her surprise and dismay, the sight was off on the rifle, and the bullet went high, whizzing right between his knees.

      
Adam never flinched or moved a muscle—although he wanted to. Hoping that his voice would not squeak like a schoolboy's, he cocked one eyebrow and said caustically, "Careful there, little girl, I'm not quite ready to be a gelding —yet. Perhaps you didn't hear me. How long do I have to stay like this?"

      
Not to be bested by this insolent cattle thief, Blair curled her mouth into a sneer and spoke in the same haughty manner, "For as long as I tell you to. And just in case you think I missed —I didn't. That bullet went right where I aimed it, and if you try anything funny, the next shot will be a bit higher."

      
Since he had eaten, the pain in Adam's head had eased considerably, but his feet were still throbbing with pain. And he'd just about had enough vexation for one day. He exhaled angrily. "Look, little girl, why don't you go back home to your mama, and tell her I said to make you quit playing with guns. It's not very ladylike. A pretty little girl like you should be looking for a husband, but you'll never catch one behaving like this."

      
Playing her role of a backwoods ruffian to the hilt, she sniffed loudly and swiped her nose with her shirt sleeve, although still careful to keep the rifle trained on him. "I ain’t no little girl and I ain't lookin' for no husband. I came varmint hunting and I found me one all right!"

      
Finally realizing what her game was, Adam huffed disgustedly. "If it’s money you're after, I don’t have much, but ..."

      
"I don't want your money," she interrupted. " 'Sides, I think you're a little confused. I'm not the thief here, you are."

      
"Thief? Me?"

      
Her eyes narrowed indignantly. "Don't act innocent with me . . . you . . . you . . . dirty, low-down . . . polecat! I just came through that little clearing back there and saw that steer—which by the way, was one of our steers — hanging half-butchered from a tree. I suppose you're 'bout to tell me how he climbed up in that tree all by his lonesome and hung himself!"

      
Adam snorted his annoyance. "So that's what all of this is about. Why didn't you say so in the first place, instead of charging into my camp like some wild-eyed heathen ..."

      
Remembering Miss Pettibone's insults, Blair stamped her foot angrily. "Don't you dare call me that name!"

      
"Then stop acting like one. For your information, I didn't slaughter that steer. But I stumbled onto the men who did and ran them off. "He found himself reluctant to admit he had been so careless as to allow one of the men to jump him from behind and knock him unconscious. "It so happens that I am a deputy marshal under Judge Parker's jurisdiction out of Fort Smith, Arkansas-and I'm not a cattle thief."

      
Not believing him, Blair shook her head. "You must think I’m awfully dumb," she sneered. "That story you told holds 'bout as much water as a leaky sieve. I know the deputy who is assigned to this area, and you ain't him. 'Sides that, if you're a deputy, Where's your badge and why are you in these parts? And if you did happen upon some men who killed our steer, why didn't you arrest them instead of just running them off?"

      
Adam gritted his teeth and bit back the overwhelming desire to wrap his hands around her slender throat and throttle her. Somehow, he managed to hold his temper, but his reply was strained and to the point. "The deputy who is assigned to this area is Pete Ramsey. But he's in Fort Worth, testifying at a trial. As to why I am here, less than a week ago a bank was robbed and a fellow deputy was gunned down. I’m after the men who did it. My badge is inside my vest pocket, and I didn't arrest those men because I do not have the authority to arrest anyone when the crime is committed here in the Nation." He shifted his weight slightly, hoping to relieve the throbbing in his feet. "Now that I’ve answered your questions, can I lower my hands?"

      
"No," she answered, still not completely convinced. "First, I want you to reach down real slow and untie the leather thongs that are holding your holsters down. After you do that, drop your gun-belt. Then, I want to see your badge. And I don't think it's necessary to remind you ..."

      
". . . Yeah, I know," Adam said, dropping his holsters to the ground. "Don't make any unnecessary moves or you'll splatter my guts everywhere — be awfully hard to do with a rifle though," he added sarcastically.

      
"Now let me see that badge you claim to have.''

      
Adam reached inside his vest pocket, removed the case containing his badge and brandished it triumphantly. "Satisfied now?"

      
Her expression had gone stone cold. "I'll have to admit, you almost had me convinced —until I saw that leather badge case. It so happens that I've seen it before, but Pete Ramsey had it. I have a feeling part of your story is true, but I'd bet my last dollar that you are the man who gunned that deputy down. Pete Ramsey was a good man and a good friend to my brothers." She swallowed hard. "If I hadn't known Pete, too, I'd almost feel sorry for you, mister, because when my brothers get through with you ..."

      
Adam's face tightened. "Whoa! Wait a minute, you have it all wrong. All deputies are issued these badge cases." He hoped the brothers the girl spoke about listened to reason better than she did.

      
Wishing that she had gone for help the moment she suspected trouble, Blair regretted entering into this now seemingly silly charade. But she also knew it could be a fatal mistake if she relaxed her guard. Whether she liked it or not, she would have to see it through. "A Townsend doesn't have the reputation for being a fool, especially a gullible one. Your story might be true but I doubt it. However, I'll take you to the ranch and leave it up to my brothers to decide what to do with you."