Wish Upon a Cowboy (2 page)

"We need more time." Eudora told him as she rose and moved to stand beside the younger woman.

Instinctively, Hannah stiffened her spine, trying unsuccessfully to make her five-foot-one-inch frame as tall and imposing as her aunt's.

Wolcott smiled and waved a negligent hand. Across the room, a copper teakettle jumped from its spot at the back of the stove, sailed across the kitchen, and clattered against the wall opposite.

"I understand," he said quietly. "A bride requires time enough to gather her trousseau." A slight narrowing of his eyes warned the two women of his growing impatience. Inclining his head a bit, he met Hannah's gaze and said, "Until the Summer Solstice, then. At which time we will be married."

"I haven't said yes," she muttered, mindful of her aunt's restraining grip on one of her hands.

"You will," he said pleasantly. "Or Eudora will find herself greatly… changed, shall we say?"

In other words, he would strip Eudora of her powers. Hannah didn't doubt him. He'd already done the same to a couple of the Guild members who'd dared try to oppose his takeover. The fact that he'd also done far worse made her shiver.

This was all her fault. If she'd been better at her work, she wouldn't need anyone's help. By the stars and planets, she was a Lowell. The pride and power of generations long past ran in her veins. If she'd only been able to master the family craft, she could have dealt with this interloper and sent him flying back to England. Although, a voice inside reminded her, not even Eudora had been able to stand against Blake Wolcott. And Eudora's powers were formidable indeed.

So what in heaven made the older woman think a man who had turned his back on his heritage—his people—could?

"I'll leave you to begin your preparations for the wedding," Wolcott said and gave them each a benevolent smile that didn't fool either of them.

Still at least he was leaving.

As he turned for the door, a small white ball of fluff jumped from the table, streaked across the floor, and darted between his legs.

"Hepzibah!" Hannah shouted and started forward even as Blake's balance dissolved and he fell to the floor in a clumsy heap. Instantly, he jumped to his feet again, making a grab for the cat.

But Hannah was quicker and snatched the little animal up to cradle against her bosom.

His features flushed a dark red, Blake reached for the hissing cat, but Hannah only tightened her grip and glared at him, daring him to take it.

A moment passed, then two. Blake's dark eyes looked like two empty holes. Hannah wanted to duck her head and run from the room, but instead she stood her ground and only hoped he couldn't see her trembling or hear her knees knocking.

Slowly, the color receded from his face and he gave her a stiff nod. "As you wish," he muttered, giving the cat a look that should have scalded it. Glancing at Eudora, he said, "Forgive my clumsiness," then walked to the door and stood aside as the heavy oak portal opened before him. Without another word, he left, and the door slamming closed behind him echoed in the room like a rifle shot.

"Without a thought, yes."

Hannah tucked the little cat up close to her chin and rubbed her cheek against its soft white fur. Hepzibah's heartbeat raced beneath her fingers and Hannah knew that her own was running in time.

Eudora moved to pick up the kettle. Smoothing her fingers across the glossy surface, she glanced at Hannah and whispered, "Well? Is it marriage to that one, or the other?"

The other. The unknown. The man Eudora had seen in her crystal. The man all the members of the Crafters' Guild were pinning their hopes on.

The stranger Hannah would have to marry in order to save everything—and everyone—she loved.

The Solstice was only six weeks away.

A shiver of apprehension slithered along her spine. The thought of marrying Blake Wolcott was enough to turn her blood to ice. And yet, she worried that she was leaping from the frying pan into the fire.

Still there was no denying Eudora was right, as she usually was. They needed help fast. Even if a blind jump would land her in the flames, the clean heat would have to be better than sharing a frying pan with Blake Wolcott.

Hannah drew a shaky breath before turning to look at her aunt. "I'll leave for Wyoming tomorrow," she only hoped the Mackenzie was half the warlock Eudora believed he was.

*  *  *

A Week Later

The longhorn bull tossed its head angrily, then turned a dark look on the cowboy recoiling his rope for another try at him. Stamping its hooves against the spring grass and snorting like a demon, the bull ducked its head and waved its massive horns in warning.

"That is the damnedest critter I ever saw," Elias Holt muttered as he rubbed one hand over the gray stubble lining his weathered jaws. "You'd think he wouldn't fight so hard against being pulled into the breeding pen."

Jonas Mackenzie shifted in his saddle and glanced at the man beside him. Years of weather and hard work had drawn deep lines into the older man's face. Pale gray eyes narrowed into a familiar squint as he watched the goings-on. His battered hat covered a head that was mostly bald, but for a dusting of steel-gray hair. His hands were like old leather, stringy and brown, and just as strong.

It was only in the last couple of years that Elias had begun to slow down a bit. At sixty-five, he'd more than earned the right, Jonas knew. But it was a hard thing to watch. It only reminded him that years were passing and that one day, when Elias was gone, Jonas would be alone.

Irritated with that train of thought, he brushed it aside and said, "Maybe he likes to pick and choose his own females."

"Hell, Mac," Elias countered, "he's too old to be roamin' the range now. If a young bull didn't kill him, the next winter would. 'sides, as mean as he is, he ought to be grateful we ain't shot him yet."

Chuckling, Jonas yanked off his hat and wiped his forehead on the sleeve of his shirt. "He's sired too many good calves for me to shoot him and he knows it."

Mean to the bone he might be, but that bull had helped build the beginnings of a hell of a herd. Jonas glanced around him briefly, letting his gaze take in the log structures they'd worked so hard to build. A bunkhouse, a barn, and two pole corrals, and off to one side, the smallest of the three buildings, the main house. Of course, a stranger might ask why the boss's place was the least impressive of the bunch. But Jonas figured that at this point, all he really needed was a roof to keep the rain and snow off. Later on, when the ranch was as big as his dreams—he figured another ten years or so—he'd build a fine house, with a wide porch and maybe some fancy scrollwork trim. And of an evening, he'd sit on that porch and stare out at the ranch he'd built from the ground up.

If a part of him realized that he'd be alone in that fine house, he silenced it.

He'd had his chance at a wife and family—and he'd lost it. After ten long years, the sting of that failure had become a dull ache that came alive only when an echo of the past rose up to taunt him. He'd buried Marie and their stillborn daughter in the cold, hard soil of Montana, then he'd tucked his heart into that dark hole with them.

He inhaled sharply, reached up, and tugged his hat brim down low over his eyes. He'd build his ranch. Make his mark… but he'd do it alone.

Nope. Family life wasn't for everybody and certainly not for him. Tilting his head back, Jonas studied the clear blue sky. Good weather lately, and after a hard winter, they'd earned it. Lazily, he shifted his gaze back to study the range.

A handful of mounted men rode slowly through the milling cattle dotting the meadow that stretched out as far as he could see. Roundup didn't officially start for a few weeks yet, but he'd started his gather early, anxious to see how his herd had withstood the winter.

By western standards, his herd was relatively small. Yet every year there were more calves born. A mixture of Hereford and longhorn, his cattle were hardy stock, and in a few years beeves would fill this meadow and beyond. Cattle he'd worked for, sweated over, and worried about. Cattle that would one day make him one of the biggest, wealthiest ranchers in Wyoming. As long as the roundup went well the weather held, and they were able to get the herd to the trains and a good price for them at railhead.

Any rancher who said he wasn't a gambler was lying. Hell, life was a gamble. One throw of the dice could set you up like a king or take everything you ever worked for. Or loved. It all came down to luck, he figured. And his luck had generally been better than most.

He sucked in a lungful of fresh mountain air and told himself his luck would hold. Everything would go as it should. Didn't everybody for miles around call him the luckiest son of a bitch in the territory?

Mac had come a long way in the twenty-five years since he'd been left an orphan by a stray band of Indians. He had no real memories of the parents he'd lost on the trail west, just the occasional shadowy images that raced through his mind and were gone again.

And that was just as well he reasoned. A man can't go forward if he's forever looking behind him. Besides, some memories were better left buried.

"What's that?" Elias asked quietly. Mac blinked and turned his head to look at the older man. Elias was as close to a father as Mac had ever known. Hired by the Mackenzies to guide them west, he had buried them where they fell then taken on the responsibility of raising their boy. They'd been together ever since. Through good times… and bad. To Mac's mind, he'd done a good job of it, too. Everything he knew about anything, he'd learned from Elias Holt.

"What are you talking about?" Mac asked, his gaze straying now.

"That out there," he lifted one hand and pointed.

"Old man," Mac said softly, squinting into the afternoon sun, "you've got eyes like a hawk."

He snorted. "It ain't hard to see what don't belong."

An instant later, Mac saw it too. "What in the hell?" He rubbed his eyes with his fingertips, then stared again, expecting the strange apparition to be gone. But it wasn't. "What's a woman doing out there?"

Elias squinted. "Looks like she's dancin'."

It did indeed, though why some strange woman would be dancing in the middle of a herd of cattle was beyond him.

A yelp of surprise sounded out from close by. Mac swung his head around in time to see the longhorn bull charge the cowhand trying to rope it, then sidestep and take off at a dead run, its hooves tearing at the meadow grass. Other cattle moved aside as the ornery old beast thundered in the direction of the damn fool dancing woman.

"Son of a bitch," Jonas muttered. So much for luck. He dug his heels into his horse's sides and the big black took off like a shot. The air rushed past him. All he heard was the startled lowing of the cattle around him and the thunder of his horse's hooves against the earth. Guiding the animal with his knees, Jonas reached for the rope coiled around his saddle horn and, loosening it, swung the wide loop high over his head.

He didn't know who she was or what in the hell she was doing on his land, but he couldn't very well sit still and watch her get trampled into the meadow.

The old bull was still charging, snorting and roaring like it was remembering years past when it had been the most powerful animal on the range.

Jonas would only get one toss at it. Moving as fast as it was, the animal would be atop the woman before she even knew what hit her. She'd never outrun it, even if she tried. He glanced at her. She wasn't trying.

Still hopping and skipping around, the stupid woman obviously didn't even realize what danger she was in. Absently, he noted long blond hair flying in the chill wind and a full red skirt swirling high above her knees.

Then he focused on the bull and stopping the animal's wild flight. Snaking the loop out farther, he widened his swing, letting his instincts take over the familiar motions. The weight of the rope, the rocking of the horse, the high arc of his hand as he let the rope fly, sailing through the air toward a moving target. He watched, unsurprised as the heavy hemp circled the bull's back legs neatly.

Instantly, the big animal dropped. Snorting and roaring its rage, the bull kicked at the loosely knotted rope, giving Mac just a few extra seconds. The big animal would be free in no time and mad as spit on a hot griddle, to boot. Hardly breaking stride, Mac's horse continued on past the fallen bull until its rider was within arm's reach of the woman, who had finally stopped dancing to look up in surprise.

Mac had a brief moment to notice the deep green of her eyes before he leaned to one side, caught her with one arm, and swung her up onto the saddle in front of him. Small and light, she nonetheless landed with a jolt and a grunt, then curled her fingers into his shirtfront for balance.

Expecting to hear tearful words of gratitude, Mac was unprepared when she shoved ineffectually at his chest and demanded. "Let me down!"

Not even a thanks, he thought, more disgusted than ever.

"There's a bull over there, just wanting to get another chance at your hide," he muttered, keeping his arm tight around her waist as she squirmed against him.

She threw her head back, tossing her hair out of her eyes. Mac stared into the deep forest-green depths and for one tantalizing moment felt something hard and tight clutch at his chest. Something he hadn't felt in years and didn't want to feel now. Then she shattered the spell by frowning up at him and ordering, "Put me down. I have to get Hepzibah."

He sent a frantic look around the small clearing. Who the hell is Hepzibah? Another dancer? One unlucky enough to be knocked to the ground by the restive herd? He didn't see anything. Next Mac shot a glance over his shoulder at the bull already kicking free of his loop. The fact that he also saw two of his riders headed for the surly animal didn't give him much ease. One slash from those wicked horns could bring down a horse with no problem, and once the bull was afoot, he and this crazy woman would both be in big trouble.

She went limp in his grasp and attempted to slide free.

"Lady," he grumbled irritably, "don't push me."