Wicked Wyoming Nights
Read Wicked Wyoming Nights Online
Authors: Leigh Greenwood
T
HE
R
ANCHER’S
L
ADY
“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
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.”