Rocky Mountain Man (Historical) (2 page)

Bluebonnet County, 1884

T
he ancient evergreens grew tall and thick, their wide limbs stretching overhead to block out the deep beautiful blue of the Montana sky.

Betsy Hunter, huddled on her buggy's comfortable springed seat, pulled the Winchester rifle closer, so it was snug against her thigh. As many times as she'd traveled across the high prairie from her hometown of Bluebonnet to the rugged edges of the great Rocky Mountains, not one frightening thing had happened.

Still, she was jumpy. The wind moaned through the trees and those thick, dark branches swung like monstrous arms and thumped and scraped the buggy top as if those trees had come alive and were trying to get at her. Of course, it was only her fanciful thoughts getting away with her. They were trees rooted into the ground and not menacing predators with sharp claws and big teeth and an appetite for town ladies.

She was perfectly safe from the army of innocent pines and cedars and firs. Not that it made driving along this forgotten road any easier. There was always something about this part of the mountain that felt menacing.

Perhaps, it was because she knew
he
was close—Mr. Hennessey. A loner, a mountain man and the most rude human being she'd ever met, and since she was an optimist who believed there was something good to like in everyone, that was saying a lot.

Mr. Duncan Hennessey was the most cynical, caustic and bitter human being in existence, if he was human at all. He avoided her as if she brought an epidemic of small pox and the plague, so she didn't see him often on her weekly trips to deliver and fetch his washing. Her first impression of the man was that he seemed more like a great black bear, although shaven and wearing a man's clothes, snarling and growling at her from his front step.

“This is the way I want it.” He'd commanded as he'd handed her payment up front, plus additional delivery charges for driving out so far from town. “I'll leave the bag of clothes here on the step. You come, get it, put the clean bag in its place and leave. Don't knock on the door. Don't try to talk to me. Just get in that frilly buggy of yours and go back where you came from.”

“But what if you need special services, like a repaired button?”

He'd seemed to rear up even taller at her perfectly necessary question, although he hadn't actually moved a muscle. His face, his eyes and his entire mood had turned as dark as a moonless night when a storm was building.

“Just repair the damn thing and leave a note in the bag when you return the clean clothes. I'll pay you next time around. Never—” he'd lifted his upper lip like a bear ready to attack “—never get anywhere near me, you hear?”

What a perfectly disagreeable man—no, beast. That's what he was. Really. As if she would want to get anywhere near him! “There's no need to shout. There is nothing wrong with my hearing,” she'd told him as sweetly as she could manage. “I'll do as you ask, of course.”

She needed his business.

“See that you do!” His dark eyes had narrowed with a fierce threat before he'd turned and slammed the door to his log cabin shut with the force of thunder.

It was his mood that was tainting the forest, she was sure of it. Every time she drove the rutted and barely visible road, for it was always in danger of growing over, she was probably the only vehicle that used it, she could feel the hate like a dark cloud that emanated from him. It was a far-reaching cloud.

It was not only her imagination, for Morris, her faithful chestnut gelding was uneasy in his traces. He swiveled his ears and lifted his nose, scenting the wind. Alert for danger—alert for any sign of
him.
Morris didn't like Mr. Hennessey, either. It was hard to imagine that anyone—or anything—could.

Oh, Lord, she'd reached the end of the road. The trees broke apart to make a sudden clearing. There was the small yard, the stable and paddock, and beyond that the little log cabin on a rise. Halfway between the stable and the house there was a bright honey pile of logs. And a man with an ax.

It was him. He had his back to her as he worked. Sunlight streamed from a hazy sky to shine on the finest pair of men's shoulders she'd ever seen. Muscles bunched and played in smooth motion beneath skin as stunning as polished bronze. Mr. Curmudgeon himself, shirtless, his dark hair tamed at his nape with a leather thong, was splitting wood like an ordinary man, but there was nothing ordinary about her least favorite customer.

As sunlight worshiped his magnificent shape, he drew back the ax and sent it hurling toward the split log. A great rending sound echoed through the clearing as the blade of steel cracked the wood and two pieces tumbled apart.

The hairs stood up on Betsy's nape as he set down his ax. He hadn't looked around, but he'd sensed her presence, for he became larger and taller, if that were possible, so that he looked more than his impressive six-plus feet. His shoulders braced, his arms bowed, his big hands curled into fists. Even from her buggy seat, she saw his jaw clamp tightly and the tendons in his neck bunch.

She was early, she knew it. Judging from the grimace on Mr. Curmudgeon's face, he was not only surprised, but also angry to see her. Well, that was too bad. He didn't have to talk to her. She didn't plan on saying a single word. She had his bag of clean and ironed laundry to deliver, neatly folded as always. He could be as unpleasant as he wished, it was his right and this was his property, after all.

But she didn't have to let it bother her.

It was difficult, but she managed to nod politely as
she drove past where he stood, unabashedly scowling at her unexpected arrival. She'd prepared for him not to be happy, but honestly, she'd never seen such an offensive sneer. His powerful dislike rolled over her like wind off a glacier and it seemed to dim the brightness and warmth of the sun.

Okay, he wasn't just unhappy. He was furious. She shivered in the suddenly cool air. Where was she going to go? She was already here. Her dear horse had tensed and his soft brown coat flickered nervously as he broke his trot to speed away from the disgruntled beast starting to huff and puff, as if working himself up into a temper.

“I don't blame you a bit,” she whispered to Morris as she pulled him to a stop in the shade of the cabin's front door. She climbed out to calm him, the poor thing, and rubbed his forehead the way he liked.

Between the gelding's erect and swiveling ears, she spotted
him
stalking toward her like an angry bear, head up, hair whipping in the wind—somehow it had come out of its thong—and his gaze was one black blaze of mad.

“Don't you worry, Morris, I know just how to handle him.” Betsy lifted the large rucksack from the back of her buggy, careful not to disturb the others. She could feel his approach like a flame growing closer, but she wasn't afraid. There wasn't a creature on earth that she couldn't tame—eventually.

“Mr. Hennessey, good day to you.” She tossed him her most winning smile.

He seemed immune to it. “You're early.”

“No, this is my new delivery time. It's changed. If you would have read last week's note—”

“I have no time for reading idle chatter. Do I owe you more money or not?”

“Goodness, no, it's just that I gained another client out this way, if you can believe that—”

“I can't.” Duncan remembered to count to ten, but all he could see was red. Anger built in his head like steam. The top of his head felt ready to blow right off. “Then this will be your new regular time?”

“Exactly!” The woman beamed at him from beneath her yellow sunbonnet's wide brim. She was everything he'd come to hate—it wasn't her fault. She didn't seem to understand how her friendliness provoked him.

He took one wary step back and kept going. Distance. It's all he wanted. Distance from her. From town, where she came from. In fact, he'd rather be completely alone forever, until the day he died. He hated doing laundry almost as much, and in fact, he rather preferred the somber laundress who used to come. She was sharp, bitter and never had a kind word. He understood that.

But this new woman—he couldn't get used to her. He didn't understand her at all. She was naive. Sheltered. She probably came from one of those happy-looking families on one of those pleasant, tree-lined streets—nothing bad ever happened to those people. They didn't end up doing hard time in prison for another's crime. They didn't fail their families. Those people had never lost everything.

The image of his mother's grave, marked by only a small stone that did not even bear her name, flashed into his vision. Bitterness filled his mouth and choked him. His heart had stopped existing years ago. The fact
that it was beating in his chest made no difference. Like a dead man, he had no future, no hopes, nothing at all.

Nothing but resentment for the slender female and those like her. She wore that frilly yellow calico dress—the one that irritated him the most—for it swirled around the toes of her polished black shoes. She left the rucksack of clean clothes neatly on the front step, as she always did, walking with light, bouncing steps as if her feet didn't quite reach the ground.

Something so delicate and sunny did not belong anywhere near him.

He turned his back, hefted up the ax again and sank it into the pine log with all his strength. The wood rent, two halves flew into the air and tumbled to the ground. He took his time positioning the wedge before he struck again.

He could feel her watching him. Her wide, curious gaze was like an unwanted touch on his bare back. It was indecent, he knew, to work in the presence of a lady without wearing his shirt, but this was his land. He lived far away from civilization for a reason, so he could do what he wanted. There was nothing this woman, or any woman like her, had that he needed.

He didn't care if he offended her, and if he did, then all the better. Maybe she'd leave faster.

But no, she was taking her time. Carefully positioning the laundry in the back of the buggy—apparently there was a complicated system. She seemed intent, half bent over the small boot of the vehicle, and he could only see the bottom half of her skirt. Good. That was an improvement. Maybe all of her would be gone and he would be alone and safe.

He learned long ago what a woman could do to a man. They were the fairer sex, or so he'd been told, but he knew better. A pretty face could hide a deceitful and ruthless heart more easily than an ugly one. He had to admit that Betsy Hunter was one of the prettiest women he'd ever seen.

Not beautiful, she wasn't exactly that. He'd seen enough women in his time to know that beauty had its own aloofness. Betsy Hunter was not a cool vision. No, she was something far more appealing. She was like the sun. She shone from the inside out. Her lovely brown hair always seemed to be tumbling down from its pins to blow in the wind and tangle around her face. She was as slender as a young willow and she moved like a wild mustang, all power and grace and fire.

She straightened from her task and he could see more than just the swirling hem of her skirt. That was not an improvement. He was a man, and a man with needs long unfulfilled, and his eyes were hungry, he could not deny that. He watched her soft round bosom shiver as she hurried to her horse's side. Her lush bow-shaped mouth had to taste like sugar, he decided, when she leaned close to speak to her gelding.

No wonder the animal preened and leaned into her touch. Duncan envied the gelding for the way it enjoyed the light strokes of her gentle fingers.

Desire pulsed in his blood, growing stronger with each beat. He watched her spin on her dainty black shoes. Her ruffled hem swirled, offering a brief look at her slim, leather-encased ankles. Which made him think of her legs. Walking as she was, with the wind against her, her petticoats were no protection. The
cotton fabric molded to her form and his gaze traced the curve of her hips and the length of her fine thighs—

“I'll see you next week, Mr. Hennessey!” she called cheerfully, waggling her fingertips to wave goodbye.

It was such an endearing movement, and it shocked him that he noticed. That longing roared up within him for what he could never have, for what he could never let himself want. What was wrong with him? He forced the heat from his veins. He turned into cold steel.

One pretty woman had cost him everything. He would never be fooled again, not by Miss Hunter or by anyone like her. It was fitting that she climbed into her fancy little buggy and hurried her horse down the road. Good riddance. He didn't like how her gentle smile twinkled in her sky-blue eyes. He really disliked the lark-song music of her voice.

In fact, he hoped to never see her again. Next Friday at one in the afternoon he would make sure he was long gone. Out hunting or just out for a twenty-mile walk. Gunmen could attack, a wolf could stalk her, or she could break an axle on that expensive buggy of hers, and he wouldn't care. He'd keep away from her.

No woman was his lookout. No, not ever again.

He gave thanks when the fir and pines guarding his land closed her from his sight. All he heard was the faint
squeak-squee-eak
of a buggy wheel and then nothing but silence.

Just the way he liked it.

 

Well, that hadn't gone too badly, considering. Betsy waited until she was certain Mr. Hennessey was well
out of sight before she retrieved her lunch pail from beneath the seat.

As she unwrapped her tomato, lettuce and salt pork sandwich, she felt sorry for her least-favorite customer—although, on objective terms, he was her best client. He paid extra delivery fees, for he was far out of her usual delivery area. It was nearly an entire afternoon's round trip. Twenty miles one way. Mr. Curmudgeon—oops! Mr. Hennessey—paid more to have his laundry brought to him than for the actual washing and ironing itself. With the county having come upon hard times from storms and drought, she couldn't afford to alienate a single customer.