Wicked Wyoming Nights

  THE RANCHER’S LADY

  “You’re cold,” Cord said softly, his lips near her ear. “You really should get out of these wet clothes.”

  Eliza could not bring herself to move, but Cord’s nimble fingers, dancing like hot coals across her body, rapidly undid the buttons of her jacket and shirt. She felt helpless to resist as he undressed her, leaving her wearing only her soggy petticoat. Cord stood up to spread her clothes out in the sun and Eliza closed her eyes. It was one thing to stare at him in fascination while she was safely dressed, but it was quite another to do so when her own body was perilously close to being stripped of its protective covering.

  “It ought not take your things more than an hour or so to dry,” Cord said as he settled down beside her again.

  “An hour? What are we going to do for an hour?” She could read the answer in his eyes.

  Cord moved closer and gathered her in his embrace. He kissed her tenderly, then with fierce, possessive energy. Eliza melted into his arms, not questioning why she was there, only glad that she was. Any lingering doubt was gone. She knew that whatever the future held for her, she must give all she had and was into his safekeeping. That was the way she wanted it. That was the way it had to be….

  Wicked

  Wyoming

  Nights

  Leigh Greenwood

  To Fran and Karen

  Copyright © 1989, 2011 Leigh Greenwood

  Wicked

  Wyoming

  Nights

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Author’s Note

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  Wyoming, 1891

  Moonlight flooded the wide plain, but failed to reveal the three horsemen moving purposefully in and out of the canyon’s deep shadows. Their bridles wrapped with flannel to prevent any betraying sound, they herded the two dozen steers out of the draw and toward the low hills in the distance, away from the buildings of the Matador Ranch that lay five miles down the creek. They were most vulnerable on the open plain—one chance rider could spoil weeks of careful planning—but the only living creatures they encountered were a pair of coyotes feeding on the carcass of a jackrabbit and some sage hens startled from their roost in the cottonwood thicket along the creek edge.

  Three pairs of eyes peered nervously about them trying to see around rocks and through ridges; three pairs of ears strained to hear the slightest sound in the vast silence of the night; three bodies sat tautly erect in the saddle ready to respond to the first sign of danger. The slow minutes crept by, one after another, until they were tantalizingly close to the safety of the hills; then a hair-raising yell shattered the quiet of the night, and five men burst from ambush.

  “Don’t let a single one of the thieving bastards get away!” The rustlers recognized the voice of Cord Stedman, owner of the Matador, and terrified of what they knew would happen if they were caught, they abandoned the steers and fled across the plain.

  But they were neither such excellent riders nor so well mounted as those who followed, and the pursuers were upon them before they could reach the cover of the canyon. A tall man riding a huge black gelding overtook the leader, and the two of them went down in a short, brutal fight. Similar battles took place nearby, but the odds were uneven, and within minutes the nearly unconscious rustlers were tossed into a pile.

  “Try this again and we’ll break your necks,” warned a deep voice laced with raw fury. The cowboys herded the steers back toward the Matador headquarters, leaving the would-be rustlers to ruminate on the folly of attempting to steal from a young, vigilant rancher who never seemed to sleep or leave someone else to do his work for him.

  “This is the best piece of land I’ve seen since we reached Wyoming,” Ira Smallwood said to his niece, looking about him at the thick grass and tall hay. “And that willow thicket is the perfect spot for a house.”

  “But Uncle Ira, you vowed we would live in town this time.”

  “It’s got plenty of water, a little wood, and even hay for winter feeding,” he continued, ignoring her. “With a little bit o work we could sell it for a tidy bit of cash in a few years.”

  “Maybe it’s already been claimed. The good land usually is.”

  “They’ll have to prove it,” her uncle barked, thinking of the arrogant ranchers who mercilessly drove off any homesteader who tried to settle on their grazing lands. “I won’t give up so easily this time.”

  He pulled the wagon into the long shadows cast by the willows, climbed down with stiff muscles, and walked across to the stream. A wet spring and a heavy snow melt caused the water to rush over debris and around rocks with a deep throated gurgle. “We could grow anything we wanted here,” he shouted back to his niece. “There’s enough water in this creek for three farms.”

  A tiny sigh escaped Eliza Smallwood, and her long, slender hands twisted in her lap as she bit her lower lip. This was good land, but she dreaded to see her uncle take up farming again. In the past ten years he had discovered one perfect spot after another, but each time he would grow restless and decide he had been mistaken. She climbed down and began to gather wood. Her graceful movement and elegant carriage were at variance with her faded brown dress and the wide brimmed bonnet she had left on the wagon seat. She was a tall girl with thick black hair swept back from her face. Her nearly black eyes and lashes stood out vividly against skin that was smooth and white in spite of the brutal effects of the sun and wind.

  Her loveliness was unmarred by any trace of the hardships she had endured, but she wore an expression of stoic resignation. Her uncle’s inability to settle anywhere for more than a year denied her friends or companionship, and a succession of troubles following Ira like a raccoon’s tail caused her to wonder if life would ever hold out the promise of anything beyond dismal failure and deadening loneliness.

  “Hurry up with that fire,” her uncle called impatiently. “I’m starved.”

  She walked down to the stream to fill a wooden bucket with water for coffee and the inevitable stew. “I don’t think this pot is going to last much longer,” she said, settling it into the bed of coals. Nearly everything they owned was torn, chipped, or worn thin, but her uncle refused to part with the money to replace it.

  Ira had killed a young antelope that morning and the stew, seasoned with onions and the last of her potatoes, was eaten in silence. She washed up while he drank his coffee. The night air was cold and the warmth of the fire felt good on her skin.

  “I think I’ll open me a saloon,” Ira announced without preamble. Pausing in the act of climbing into the wagon to prepare for bed, Eliza waited for her uncle to explain his bald statement, but
when he didn’t continue, she climbed back down to wait. “You can help me run it,” he said at last, looking up. His harsh features, illuminated by the feeble glow, were without warmth and the brooding eyes without love or understanding.

  “Maybe they already have enough saloons.”

  Then I’ll open one anyway. I’ll see that mine’s better than all the rest.”

  “But I don’t know anything about running a saloon,” she objected. “How can I possibly be of any use?”

  “You can serve the men their whiskey.” He studied her dispassionately. “You’d be pretty enough if you’d wear something besides that old, faded dress.”

  “You know strangers frighten me,” Eliza said, skipping over the fact that, despite her pleas, her uncle had refused to replace her worn-out clothes. “I never know what to do.”

  “Then it’s time you learned. You’re not much good to me just sitting around waiting to cook supper.”

  “But you promised Aunt Sarah to take care of me.” Eliza had always depended upon Ira’s veneration of his wife to protect her from his strange fits and starts. “And you know she wouldn’t approve of me working in a saloon.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with working in your own uncle’s place,” he responded roughly. “Especially not as long as I’m there. Besides, why should I have to do everything when your face could make more money than a dozen farms?”

  “I couldn’t do it,” she protested. “I know I couldn’t.”

  “Stop whining and go to bed,” Ira ordered irritably. “You’d think I was asking you to do something sinful. Any fool can serve whiskey and sing a few songs. And you’re no fool for all the crazy notions in your head.”

  Eliza flushed in the darkness. At twenty she was a grown woman, but virtually cut off from social contact since she was ten, she had built her expectations of marriage on her dimly remembered parents’ devotion to each other. One particularly melancholy night she had confided her dreams of love to her uncle, and she had never ceased to regret it. He had torn her illusions apart fragment by fragment and then laughed at her, not in sympathy or amusement but with a cruel, taunting rasp that scoured her tender soul.

  She had thought of running away, but there was nowhere for a girl without a husband or family to go and no way for a respectable female to earn a living. She was just as firmly bound to her uncle by circumstances as she was by her vow to her aunt.

  Sarah Smallwood had loved her husband deeply, but she was well aware of his shortcomings. “Promise me you won’t ever leave him,” she had begged Eliza when she knew she was dying. “He can’t manage by himself” Neither then nor now did Eliza understand how she was supposed to help her uncle, but her resolution to honor her vow never wavered, not even when Ira was about to embark on a scheme no more likely to prosper than any of the others he had taken up and discarded over the past ten years. It never did any good to try and reason with him, so she started to prepare for bed.

  “Are you sure it’s safe to sleep on the wet ground?” Eliza asked. He had been coughing a lot recently.

  “Don’t worry about me. Just make sure breakfast is ready on time.”

  “It always is,” she whispered under her breath, and closed the flap behind her.

  Eliza felt more hopeful next morning. The ground was stiff with frost, but the sky was clear and the greening plains stretched limitlessly before her. The icy coldness of the stream felt good to her skin. Her uncle was up and gone without telling her when he’d be back. It was always this way, she thought, yet he expected his breakfast to be ready the minute he returned. She worked silently, never once feeling the hopeful excitement of new surroundings or untested opportunity. Her world was bound by work and fear of the unknown, so much so that when she looked up to see two horsemen approaching she was immediately filled with misgivings.

  “Uncle Ira!” she called in a long, drawn-out wail, but he was nowhere in sight. She was going to have to confront these men alone, and her heart started beating so hard it hurt. She faced them across the fire not knowing why they were bearing down on her at a gallop or what she could do to defend herself. Her mind was so paralyzed with fear she didn’t notice their faces were not those of hardened of murderers, but of boys no older than herself. In her distraught mind they looked like the type of terrifying enemy her uncle had warned against for the last ten years.

  The riders slowed their approach, and she dashed behind the wagon; they divided, one on each side, and with a shriek she tried to take refuge inside, but the shorter man leapt from the saddle and grabbed her by the waist. She whirled, confronting him with the terror-filled eyes of a cornered animal. The shock of finding a beautiful woman in his arms so stunned the young attacker he loosened his grip long enough for Eliza to break away and she made a desperate dash for the willow thicket.

  “Now look what you’ve done Royce,” yelled his disgusted companion. “I’d be ashamed for anyone to know I couldn’t hold on to a girl, even if she was bigger than me.” This dig at his short statue helped Royce recover his tongue.

  “Did you see her, Sturgis?” he asked earnestly. “There ain’t no angels prettier than she is.”

  “You’ll be an angel if we don’t get these squatters out of here before the boss hears about it. He’s still so worked up over them rustlers he’s liable to take the hide right off your back.” Royce climbed back into the saddle.

  “But I had her in my arms,“ he stressed.

  “Use your rope if you’re afraid to touch her.” Sturgis looked around, but Eliza had disappeared among the drooping branches. “Damn, now we’ve lost her. Mr. Stedman will turn us off for sure if we don’t do no better’n this. Keep an eye out for her husband while I circle around the other side. Now where’d she get to?” he called when he couldn’t find her. “Did she come out your side?”

  “No, she’s still in there.”

  “I’ll be damned if I can see her. See if you can flush her out.” The boys circled the ticket, peering into the heavily budded branches. “There she is, between those two trunks.”

  “Please go away,” Eliza begged when Sturgis dismounted. “I haven’t done anything to you.”

  “We just want to talk to you, lady.” Eliza was faster in moccasins than Sturgis was in his high-heeled boots, and she scampered out of his reach. “Use your rope, fool,” he yelled at Royce. The bemused young man quickly looped his lasso and threw it with a quick, practiced motion that settled it about Eliza’s waist. Her fingers clawed wildly at the tightening ring, but it clamped down on her just as inexorably as it had on hundreds of calves.

  “Please don’t dishonor me,” she entreated. “Let me go.” The boys gaped at each other.

  “Nobody’s going to do anything like that,” Royce stammered, embarrassed at being thought to harbor such wicked designs on the person of a female. “This is Matador grazing land, ma’am, and Mr. Stedman don’t allow nobody on it.” But Eliza couldn’t have been more frightened if she had been captured by painted savages, and she prepared to fight for her very life. When Sturgis approached her, she charged him like a demented virago, and Royce had to pull the rope taut to prevent her doing serious damage to his face.

  “Whee!” gasped Sturgis when he was safely out of range. “I think she’s crazy.”

  “Uncle!” shrieked Eliza, thoughtlessly giving warning of Ira’s approach. Cursing his niece’s stupidity, Ira headed for the wagon and his rifle at a dead run, but Sturgis had time to mount his horse and throw a second rope over him.

  “You simple-minded fool!” Ira howled, struggling so fiercely he fell to his knees. “If you’d kept your mouth shut, I could have put a bullet through both the bastards.”

  “Nobody’s going to shoot anybody,” Sturgis said sternly, recovering his balance now that he faced a hostile man instead of a frightened woman. “We just came to say you can’t settle here.”

  “This is government land,” growled Ira, struggling to his feet. “It’s free to anybody who’ll work it.”

 
“It’s in the middle of the Matador, and Mr. Stedman won’t allow any squatters on this creek.” Ira battled the rope, but Sturgis’s pony kept it taut. Too dazed to struggle for her own release, Eliza watched wide-eyed as her uncle unexpectedly sprinted toward Sturgis’s horse. The rope went slack, and free of the noose, Ira headed for the wagon as fast as his legs would carry his thin, aging body.

  “He’s going for his rifle,” Sturgis yelled, discarding the now useless rope. Royce threw himself from the saddle, and in seconds the three men were rolling in the dust. The boys were young and strong, but Ira fought with the strength of rage. Eliza, watching with terror-stricken eyes, slumped to her knees when they at last pinned the bloodied and exhausted man to the ground.

  “You’ll pay for this,” Ira panted through gritted teeth. Unable to break the hold on his arms and neck, he relaxed and Royce, inexperienced and out of breath himself, was caught off guard. With a yell of triumph Ira whipped over and around on top of him, but Sturgis dealt him a heavy blow to the back of his head and Ira subsided, too stunned to move, his eyes blazing with hate.

  “Tie him up before he jumps me again.”

  “If you weren’t so careless—”

  “Shut up and get your rope.” Ira’s feeble struggles were to no avail and he was soon bound securely. “What are we going to do with her?” Royce asked getting to his feet. “She might fetch help if we let her go.”