Drew (The Cowboys)
Read Drew (The Cowboys) Online
Authors: Leigh Greenwood
A PROPER SETTING DOWN
She landed in Cole’s arms.
The shock knocked the sense out of her. She couldn’t describe it any other way. Nothing else could account for the fact that not a single coherent thought remained in her head. He caught her easily, as if he’d done it before. He balanced her lightly against his chest, but that didn’t keep her from being acutely aware she was leaning against his body. Heat and tension passed between them like their clothes weren’t even there.
“Put me down,” she said, finally managing to find her tongue… and the indignation that should have boiled to the surface immediately.
“I can’t.”
“If you don’t, I’ll punch you in the nose so hard it’ll make your eyes water. I’m not in the habit of being manhandled by every passing drifter.”
“It’s not that,” he said. “I—”
She drew back her fist. “You’ve got exactly one second.”
He shrugged and set her down. She felt her stocking feet sink into warm, soft manure.
The Cowboys
Series by Leigh Greenwood:JAKE
WARD
BUCK
CHET
SEAN
PETE
The
Seven Brides
Series:ROSE
FERN
IRIS
LAUREL
DAISY
VIOLET
LILY
To Heather: If you want to find a good man, get a gun.
Copyright © 2000, 2011 Leigh Greenwood
Contents
Sunnyvale, Indiana
1874
Drew Townsend settled her rifle at her shoulder. “Pull,” she called.
Three clay pigeons rose into the air in rapid succession. Just as quickly, Drew fired three times and shattered all three. The challenger looked on in dismay, disgruntled and angry.
“Let me try again,” he said.
“The man wants another chance, Gordy,” Drew called out. “Load ’em up.”
“Wait a minute,” the man said. “I’m not ready.”
“Take all the time you want,” Drew said.
Drew was the sharpshooter for Earl Odum’s Wild West Show. They were traveling west from New York to the Mississippi River, playing in more than a hundred cities and small towns along the way. When they reached St. Louis, they’d head south to Memphis, then to New Orleans.
The show was laid out in a large field outside the small town of Sunnyvale. Stands now filled with over five thousand spectators had been set up along the east side of the field. The tents that housed the costumes, wagons, stagecoaches, Indian tents, and other props had been set up to the south, the pens holding the horses, cows, and buffalo to the north.
“I don’t need a lot of time to get ready to shoot,” the man responded angrily. “I just need to be the one to say when I’m ready.”
Drew didn’t reply. She had been through this hundreds of times. Most men got angry or embarrassed when a woman beat them at a skill they considered their special domain—marksmanship. Even though Drew had earlier demonstrated her ability with a variety of trick shots, there was always one man in the crowd who was convinced it couldn’t be so hard if a woman could do it She had learned to stand quietly, to give them all the time they needed to calm their nerves and take their shots. The outcome would be the same as it was last night and all the nights before that.
She always won.
“You ready?” the challenger called to the man operating the clay pigeon machine.
“Ready,” he called back.
The man shifted nervously on the balls of his feet, leaning forward, then rocking back on his heels. Drew knew what was going through the man’s mind, why he was taking so much time. He knew he was beaten. He didn’t want to shoot and prove it all over again, but he couldn’t back down before a woman.
He checked his rifle, changed his balance, and grew still. “Pull!” he shouted.
He missed all three. Earl Odum, ringmaster and owner, broke in to divert attention from the dispirited man. “Once again Miss Townsend proves there’s nobody better with a rifle.”
As the defeated man turned toward the stands, another man rose from his seat and started forward.
“She may not be as big as her opponents,” Earl continued, “but she’s huge in talent. There’s simply nobody better.”
Drew hated it when Earl called attention to her size. She longed to be as tall and strong as a man. She hated being trapped in a woman’s body.
The second stranger reached the bottom of the stands. With the easy, fluid motion of a well-trained athletic body, he vaulted over the low wall that separated the performers from the crowd.
“I want to shoot against Miss Townsend,” he announced.
“Her act is over for tonight,” Earl said. “She’ll—”
“I want to shoot against her,” the stranger repeated. He was dressed in boots, denim pants that fit his hips and thighs like a second skin, a wide belt around his narrow waist, a chambray shirt that covered broad shoulders, and a broad-brimmed, flat-crowned hat that shaded his eyes. Drew wasn’t normally affected by a man’s appearance, even one as well formed as this man, but a frisson of excitement ran down her spine.
She decided to ignore it.
“You’re too late. We’re about to start the trick riding.” Earl never let two men shoot against Drew in the same evening. It slowed the show too much and made the audience restless, especially the women, who didn’t care about guns. The children, too, preferred the trick riders, even the boys old enough to have their own guns.
“Now,” the man said. “I think I can do better than that other fellow.”
The defeated challenger had disappeared into the crowd.
“Why can’t you come back next time we’re through here?” Earl asked.
“The audience wants to see someone go up against her who has a chance to win. What do you say?” he said, turning to the audience.
A round of applause appeared to give him all the support he needed. He came toward Drew. “You’re pretty good, aren’t you?”
No one called Drew
pretty good.
She was great, unbelievable, unbeatable, or any of several other superlatives.
Pretty good
was practically an insult. Drew made a conscious effort not to let her pride cause her to react. No one had beaten her in the two years she’d been with the show. “I try to give the public a good show,” she said modestly.
His gaze blatantly raked her body. “I’d say that was an understatement.”
Drew bridled. Her regular outfit was a skirt long enough to reach just below the tops of her boots, a vest, and a shirt buttoned up to her chin. Her favorite color was brown, because it reminded her of buckskin. But no matter what color vest she chose, she couldn’t hide her breasts. Buttoning her shirt up to her throat didn’t help either. She wore her dark brown hair down in soft curls that billowed in the breeze.
“Are you going to shoot or talk?” Drew asked. She suspected he might be trying to rattle her by his gaze and his rudeness. He would soon learn he was wasting his time. She’d faced hundreds of men, many more rude, more intimidating, more infuriating than he.
“I guess I’d better let my shooting do the talking for me. Do you have a rifle I can use? I don’t have one handy.”
Drew pointed to the rifle the last challenger had used. He looked at the rifle, and swung his gaze to Drew, then back to the rifle.
“Is there something wrong?” she asked.
“If there were, I wouldn’t know, would I?” He turned to the audience. “What do you think, folks? Should I use the same rifle or ask for another?” Several men urged him to use another one. “How about letting me use your rifle?” he said, turning back to Drew.
She knew he meant to imply that the rifle had been fixed so he couldn’t win. She handed him her rifle. “Use mine,” she said, speaking loudly enough for everyone in the audience to hear her. “I’ll use the other one.”
It pleased her to see she’d caught him by surprise. Did he really think she’d give the challengers a faulty rifle? That angered her, but her anger subsided quickly. She knew he’d be the one to walk from the ring in defeat.