Running Wild (11 page)

“He doesn’t believe in the women’s movement.”

He frowned. “Then why the hell is he interested in you?”

A muscle jumped in her cheek. “Why the hell, indeed,” she
said, a trace of her usual merriment marbling her voice.

“Damn, I was tryin’ not to cuss so much in front of you,” he
said, looking back down at the letter.

“You appear to be losing that battle.”

With a tightness in his jaw, Nick lifted his head, narrowing
his eyes as he stared at Star. “Correction? What kind of correction?”

“None other than reams of letters imploring me to change my
ways.”

“Has he sent you a lot of these things?”

She hesitated. “One a week, but they aren’t anything,
really. I’ve had admirers before, Nicholas.”

And six fiancés.

Still, this letter seemed threatening.

“But it troubles you,” he said lamely.

She shrugged, trying, most likely to appear unconcerned. She
was still peaked, though, and her hands lay clenched in her lap. “It is rather
daunting,” she said, “that for all the work and education we reformers have
done, there are still many, many men who refuse to listen. Oh, they hear
us—they can’t help but hear us, for we are loud and growing louder—but they
don’t listen.”

Nick shifted uncomfortably. “Yeah, it’s not your cause that
bothers me about this letter. It’s this hombre’s assertion that he’s going to
make dam—danged sure that you change your ways. Or else. He doesn’t say ‘or
else’, but it’s there.”

“Why, yes, but he says very much the same in all his letters
and he’s done nothing at all. Nor would I expect him to, since he has not even
the strength of spirit to provide his real name.”

“Another thing that troubles me is,” Nick said slowly,
glancing briefly at the envelope on the sofa between them, “the fact that he
knows you’re here.”

She grimaced. “Yes. Yes, that is a trifle distressing.”

Damn, Nick thought as he digested the information. This
wasn’t just some lovesick boy, but a man in earnest pursuit. “You sent
invitations to Lee’s wedding to a whole slew of people back East, didn’t you?”

She tilted her head in that deliberative way of hers, which
tugged at his chest. Why? Because it meant she was thinking. Puzzling through a
problem. The women he’d grown up with didn’t work through problems outside of
cooking or cleaning or child rearing. “Why, yes, of course, with the
understanding that they would not attend. It’s quite a distance and during the
holiday season at well. But,” she said, nodding slightly, “I see your point.
All of those invitations had the Bar M as a return address.”

“He could’ve gotten our location from them.”

“Presuming he’s a member of Society. Until now, I thought
he’d only heard of me through the movement.”

“Could be he knows one of your friends.”

“Yes,” she said nodding slowly. “That is a possibility. He
may even have rifled through the trash.”

He grinned and gave her letter back reluctantly. “More ’n
likely not that. He writes like an educated man,” he said, taking up the rest
of the mail and rising. “Does your Pa know about this?”

“The whole family does. They find it diverting.”

The tension eased in his muscles. If Ward knew about the
letters and didn’t care, well he was a smart, smart man, who better understood
the style of those folk back East. No doubt Nick was just seein’ ghosts.

“I imagine if he’s educated then he
is
a member of
Society,” Star speculated aloud.

“Not everybody who’s educated is a member of your Society.
Just probably not living on the streets.”

She smiled and the light came back into her eyes again.
“Forgive me, Nicholas. For a moment I’d forgotten that
you
are an
educated man. It is quite possible,” she said as she played with her earring
again, “that someone like you has written me these letters. How intriguing that
would be. I think I should like to meet Romeo after all and become—how shall I
say this?—better acquainted.”

The flirt was back and Nick found himself on well-trod
ground. “A man like me wouldn’t be writin’ letters. Man like me would be
upfront and honest. Letters and poetry are a waste of time.”

“Is that so? You know, I must confess yours is an approach I
would prefer. Letters are so impersonal. Too much mental energy and not nearly
enough physical attention.”

Man alive, the way she could switch moods—and drag him with
her—made his head spin. “I expect so. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d better
deliver the rest of this mail.”

“Yes,” she said, and returned the letter to its envelope.
“Quite right.” She picked up another letter and slid her finger along the seam.
Nick started toward the door linking the old house and the expansion wing,
complete with Melinda’s parlor. Try as he did though, he couldn’t dismiss Romeo
altogether. After several steps, he stopped and turned. She was reading another
letter. Judging by the frown of concentration between her eyebrows, it was
interesting, but not upsetting.

“Miz Montgomery?”

She raised her head. “Yes?”

“’Bout that shootin’ lesson. You ask your Pa?”

Her eyes darkened a bit—she knew why he mentioned it—but a
seductive smile walked across her face, eclipsing concern. “Yes, I did. He said
he couldn’t care less as long as I took pains not to shoot
him
. Why, are
you willing to teach me, then?”

Stupid, stupid idea. The woman was just fine and didn’t need
a damned bit of help from him. She had a father and two brothers to care for
her. “Sure. When?” he asked, trying to sound casual.

Her gold eyes gleamed with mischief. “Whenever it is convenient
for you.”

“Tomorrow afternoon sound good? Right after dinner.”

“That sounds perfect.”

“Fair enough,” he said. He turned, trying not to think about
the way her voice had become a low purr, which heated his blood and made his
idiotic heart pound.

Miguel de Cervantes, Don Quixote de la Mancha

Shakespeare, King Richard II

Star easily kept pace with Nicholas, who guided her through
a small section of trees to the shooting range situated about a half mile
southeast of the ranch house. Their feet crunched on a thin layer of snow,
while the early afternoon sun started its decline in a light blue sky. As a
cool breeze wafted under her plain straw hat, Star cast a sidelong glance at
Nicholas. Dressed in his tan leather coat and blue jean pants, he covered the
ground quickly in that confident, mile-eating jaunt of his, cradling his rifle
in his right arm. He wore a pair of tan leather gloves, and he’d slung a small
sack containing boxes of bullets over his left shoulder. It swung gently with
each stride. Under the shadow of his Stetson, his face showed a half-day’s
growth of beard.

Her heart skipped a beat.

Her hands, encased in light kid gloves, itched to feel the
rasp of whiskers against her bare skin as she ran her fingers across his
strong, stubborn chin and over his cheek, cold from the afternoon chill. And
then further back, through his hair to push off his hat, just seconds before
covering his mouth. . . .

She jerked her mind away from the image, scolding her
overactive imagination. Having spent almost two weeks in Nicholas’s company,
her desire for him had reached an almost fevered pitch. She was about to shoot
a rifle, she reminded herself firmly, which ought to be the prime focus of her
attention. It only added to that wanton craving, however, for she clearly
remembered the kiss that the rabid cougar had interrupted. In the middle of the
night, when the demon-nightmares woke her, recollection of that kiss helped put
her back to sleep.

Come morning, though, she’d remember his indifference
afterwards.

The contrast was driving her to distraction.

“This is it,” he said, as they emerged from the woods into a
clearing. He halted.

“It” was horseshoe shaped and large, the size of a couple of
tennis courts. At one end, someone had piled hay bales, one on top of another,
against a steep hill. At the other, several crates lay lined up next to each
other.

“I’m going to shoot hay bales?”

He crossed to the crates and leaned his rifle against them,
then laid the sack of bullets on the ground. “No ma’am, you’re going to shoot
cans.” He strode across the clearing to a pile of cans. She eyed the rifle and
then leaned over to touch it. He looked up from gathering an armful of cans.
“You’ll want to hold off handlin’ it until I’m done here.”

“Nicholas,” she said, tilting her head and widening her
eyes, “don’t you trust me?”

He threw her a quick grin. “Here’s your first lesson—always
have a healthy respect for firearms. Even the most cautious man can
accidentally shoot somebody. Fact is, a lot more people are killed from
carelessness than from purpose.”

“Yes, I know
intimately
how good you are with a
rifle,” she said as he crossed the range to line cans up on the hay bales.

He returned. “And,” he answered, “I’ve never accidentally
shot anybody or anything. I never lose respect for the deadliness of a weapon.
They aren’t toys—
ever
.”

His countenance was grave, the tone of his voice cool and firm.
His eyes held hers steadily, entirely bereft of merriment. She nodded. “All
right. I understand.” With that she carefully tucked her emotions—passion,
excitement—away.

“Good. Now, for your first time firing a weapon, you’ll need
to be as steady as possible. That means kneeling.” He passed his eyes over her
skeptically. “Come to think on it, those might not be the best clothes for
this.”

Star glanced down at her grey tweed Ulster, tightly cuffed
at her wrists. Under it, she wore a yellow muslin frock patterned by white
roses, the cheapest dress she owned and one of the few that fit without a
bustle. She’d forgone other ornament as well, except for a ribbon around her
tightly plaited hair. In fact, she felt quite naked, but not in the way she’d
like
to be with Nicholas.

Perhaps she had not tucked those emotions away quite as well
as she thought.

“It’s the best I have,” she answered.

“You could ruin ’em.”

“If so, then I shall keep them as my firing clothes.”

He lifted his eyebrows. “You expect to do this often?”

She smiled. “Doesn’t practice make perfect?”

“Yeah,” he said, rubbing the stubble on the side of his face
as he held her gaze. “Yeah. O.K.” He took a breath, then picked up the rifle.
“First things first, you need to get to know your weapon. You’ll shoot best if
you understand how it works. Here, you can take it now,” he said handing it to
her.

Once more, she marveled at its weight. He carried it as if
it weighed no more than a twig. “What kind of gun is it?”

“Winchester, 73. There are newer rifles, but this is my
favorite,” he said, stepping toward her. “Here, hold it sideways, and I’ll tell
you the parts. Don’t point it at me. Never point a gun at anybody unless you’re
going to shoot ’em. Even if you’d swear on your life that it’s unloaded.
Sometimes things go wrong. And it’s just good sense never to shoot at a person
or animal unless you’re ready to kill. ’Course you don’t have to shoot to kill,
but you oughta be ready for the consequences. O.K., now this triangular wooden
part here, that’s the stock. When you aim, you put it against your shoulder and
lay your cheek against it and look through the sight. . .”

For the next twenty minutes, he told her the names of all
the parts and the way they worked. He was all business, his voice deep and
delightfully authoritative as he explained how to clean the gun once she’d
fired it and the importance of keeping it clean. Even though she never had any
intention of cleaning a gun, he made her go through the motions, peering down
the barrel to see how it should look. Then he took an oilcan from his sack and
showed her where to oil it.

“Got all that?” he asked finally.

She smiled and gave him a little shrug of her shoulders.
“Some of it. You don’t honestly expect me to remember everything, do you? I’m
not that quick a study.”

“Quick enough, I’d reckon. O.K., now we’ll move onto aiming
it.”

“Oh wonderful! Where are the bullets?”

“In the bag,” he said dryly, “where they’ll stay until you
learn to aim.”

Her shoulders sank. “I
still
don’t get to shoot it?”

“Not yet. Remember what I said. Never aim unless you’re
gonna shoot.”

She scowled at him. “Yes, but it’s getting late and I still
haven’t heard so much as a bang.”

He pushed back his hat and grinned. “Bang.”

She laughed. “A real bang! The next thing you’ll be telling
me is that I have to start with a popgun!”

“Maybe so, if you can’t be patient.”

“Oh all right. I’ll stop complaining. How do I aim this
thing?”