Wildflower (9 page)

“Because I asked him to.”

She paused in cutting her meat. She didn’t need Logan delegating her duties to the other men. Just because they were man and wife didn’t mean she wanted, or required, special treatment. She opened her mouth, but his touch to her arm stopped the protest.

“I’d like you to come,” he amended. “You haven’t left the ranch since before your pa took sick. I thought you’d enjoy the ride.”

“But the boys at the herd need to be spelled so they can get some sleep.”

“Bart and Josh will head out after breakfast. We’ll join them once we’re done in town.” He popped the hunk of meat into his mouth and chewed.

She gathered her plate and stood. “I have to feed and saddle Turk.”

He touched her arm again. “Done and done. Finish your breakfast.”

She blinked, her butt suspended over the bench. With a plunk, she sat back down. One of the men asked Logan a question and he turned to answer. She tried to refocus on her meal, but a tightness in her throat made swallowing difficult.

Maybe she should be insulted that Logan had taken care of her horse or that he assumed she’d ride to town with him. Yet she only felt grateful that he’d invited her along. The tightness turned fuzzy.

She figured the only reason he’d married her was to get the ranch. It made perfect sense for the ranch to be her dowry. Logan was the best cowboy in all of Indian Territory. He’d build on the Standing T’s modest success. What didn’t make sense was Logan being so dang nice to her.

A niceness that extended to the bedroom.

She picked up her cup and casually observed her husband as he gave the men their assignments for the day. He was a good and fair boss, never treating any man better or worse than any other. His treatment of Tom yesterday was the first time she’d ever seen his temper rule his judgment. And he was a good man. She would miss him when she left.

Sudden remorse stabbed her heart. She
would
miss Logan. Very much. But would he miss her?

The question was as unwelcome as it was unsettling. Would he pine for her or simply move on to someone else? Someone prettier, who smelled nicer and wore dresses instead of denims? She didn’t want to care one way or the other if he missed her. Yet she did. And more than just a little.

“You ready to go?”

Logan’s voice wrenched her thoughts back to the present. She looked at him and two furrows of concern appeared in the space between his eyebrows.

“Everything all right, Matt?”

“Everything’s fine,” she answered briskly. She picked up her plate and cup, depositing them in the wash bucket. She grabbed her coat. “Let’s ride.”

~
~
~

Cantering across the prairie, Logan was hard pressed to keep his attention on the ground beneath Sergeant’s hooves and off his wife. She rode beside him, sitting easy in the saddle, her face relaxed,
her
short hair flowing back. She was so beautiful.

The weather was again warm and she’d opened her coat. Her fleshy breasts moved in rhythm to the rest of her body. His semi-hard cock pulsed against the saddle horn.

The memory of those breasts in his hands streamed through his head over and over. Of her rosy nipples. Her moans and whimpers. Her pussy contracting around his fingers.

God
!

His cock swelled further as his balls tightened. He needed to think about something else. Anything else. Otherwise he’d do permanent damage to himself.

Last night, he’d taken the first step toward convincing his wife she was beautiful. But it was just the first step. Matt was nothing if not stubborn. More time and more effort would be needed before she would truly be “his wife.”

They crested a small ridge and Williamsville came into view. The expected jumpiness scuttled across his neck, forcing an end to his fantasizing.

He hated anyplace that held more than a dozen people per five square miles. While a far cry from Philadelphia, Williamsville stood on a major stage line, had a mercantile, a telegraph office and ground was being broken for a new hotel.

Situated between the Red River and Choctaw Indian land, the area boasted some of the best grazing ground, stretching as far as the eye could see. That, combined with plentiful water, had many settlers passing through on their way further west deciding to stay. Much to Logan’s displeasure.

Though Williamsville had a sheriff, a lawless attitude prevailed. Many of the businesses had hired professional gunmen for security. And the rise in rustling didn’t help deter the trend.

Suddenly Sergeant whinnied and pulled up short. Logan leaped from the saddle and lifted his horse’s left rear hoof.

“What happened?” Matt asked, dismounting.

“He’s thrown a shoe.” He rubbed a hand up the animal’s leg then patted his flank. “This muddy trail pulled it clean off.” He looked at the horizon then at her. “Think your pony can handle carrying my extra weight? Otherwise, I’m stuck waiting for Chuck and Dave in the wagon.”

“It’s not that far. You could always walk.”

Her impish tease garnered a mock frown. “You’re not that cussied mean, are you? Bad enough I’d have to ride in the back of that rattling buckboard.”

She rolled her eyes. “All right, fine.”

She swung back onto Turk and inched forward as far as the saddle horn would allow. He stuck his foot in the empty stirrup and hefted himself up behind her, worming into the saddle as best he could.

Even through the layers of denim material, her butt cheeks pressed against his cock. It hardened more. She sat ramrod straight in the saddle like she feared touching him. In one hand, he held Sergeant’s reins and placed his other on her hip to steady
himself
. She clucked her tongue and Turk lurched forward.

She kept her horse at a slow plod and the rhythmic pushing thrust of Turk’s movement reminded him of making love. Of his hips pushing forward. Of sinking into her body then pulling back. His palm tingled to slip up her body. To mold around a breast and tweak a nipple. Bring her back flush to his chest.

He gritted his teeth together. This was torture, pure and simple. Thank God, the town wasn’t that far with the livery on the near end. She pulled to a stop at the corral and he slid off Turk’s rump.

He placed a hand across her thigh and smiled up at her. Her eyelids were hooded and her breathing choppy. It appeared he hadn’t been the only one affected by them riding double.

The blacksmith walked up to them. “Morning, folks.”

Logan cleared his throat. “Morning, Gus.” He tied Sergeant’s reins to the corral and gave his attention to the stocky, bald man. Gus might not have any hair on his head, but he had more than his share on his face. “My horse threw a shoe a ways back.”

The big man hunkered down and lifted one rear leg then the other. He unbent himself. “When’s the last time he was shod?”

Logan rubbed the back of his hand across the back of his neck. “End of last summer.”

Gus nodded. “I’ll need to do the right one as well. It’s ‘bout ready to come off, too. Can have ‘em ready to go in about an hour.”

“Good. See you in an hour.”

He waited for Matt dismount. While she tied Turk next to Sergeant, he loosened the cinch on each horse. Side by side, they headed across the street to the bank.

Logan led the way up the three steps to the door then held it open for her. Puzzlement knitted her brow. With an encouraging smile, he placed a hand on her lower back to urge her inside. After a brief hesitation, she entered ahead of him.

A heavy wood counter stood to one side of the room with three jail-like cubicles behind. Each cubicle hosted an immaculately dressed man in a high-buttoned, white shirt and black bowtie. On the opposite side, lounging against the wall were two rough looking gunslingers.

Apprehension wiggled up Logan’s spine at the six-shooters hanging low on their hips. He realized they were security for the bank, but kept an eye on them anyway as he took Matt’s elbow and waited in line for the next available clerk.

“I tell ya it’s the Choctaw that’s doing all this here rustling,” a bow-legged rancher ahead of them said around a mouthful of tobacco to his companion. “At this rate, nary a single
beeve’ll
be left by August.” He spat into a spittoon. “The army needs to come in and clean up the mess.”

“Well, I ain’t waiting on no army,” the other man stated. “I’m selling out and heading back to Fort Smith.” The two men continued talking as they walked to an open cage.

Logan shook his head. Only idiots believed the Choctaw were responsible for the recent increase in rustling. It didn’t make sense that the peaceful, agricultural tribe would abruptly turn into marauders. They were always given a percentage of the local herds as grazing fee for use of their land.

A woman with two children finished her business and Logan guided Matt forward. “Can I help you?” the clerk asked.

“We need to see Mr. Goldwater,” Logan replied.

“One moment.”

The clerk slid from his stool and walked to the other side of the bank. He spoke to a man, not the bank manager, sitting behind a big desk. Immediately the seated man swiveled his head to stare at him and Matt. He then stood and accompanied the clerk back to them.

Suspicion inched along Logan’s neck. The man striding toward them was tall and wiry with the grandiose stature of a big man in charge of something small.

“I’m Jules Dobson, assistant manager. Mr. Goldwater is home sick today.” He extended his hand.

Logan shook his hand. “Name’s Cartwright. You’re new here, right?”

“Yes, I just moved from Fort Smith last month.”

“Well, welcome to Williamsville. This is my wife.” Logan inclined his head toward Matt.

Dobson gave Matt a single, up and down assessing glance over his glasses, his hooked nose wrinkling with an overt, dismissing sniff. Logan’s hands clenched into tight fists, ready to give this dandy a lesson about disrespecting a man’s wife. Matt must have sensed his intent because she rested her hand on his arm.

“How can I help you, Mr. Cartwright?” Dobson asked.

Logan allowed his wife’s touch to quiet his temper. “Gene Townsend passed recently and the Standing T deed needs to be changed.”

“Townsend died? When?”

Logan scowled at Dobson’s pleased tone. “Three days ago and, like I said, we’re here to change the deed.”

“Of course,” the manager said, a bit too jolly, rubbing his hands together. “I’ll need to see Mr. Townsend’s will, stating whom he left the ranch to and then I can change the deed.”

Logan took the paper Doc Bingham had written up before Gene died and gave it to Dobson. The banker gave it the briefest of glances. “This isn’t a last will and testament.”

“What difference does that make?”

Dobson handed the paper back. “In order for there to be a transfer of ownership, I need a
legal
last will and testament, written by a lawyer. I’m sorry, but this simply won’t do.”

Logan narrowed his eyes. This vulture looked anything but sorry. “I don’t know how things are done in Fort Smith, Dobson, but here in Indian Territory we don’t have the luxury of lawyers. Gene’s wishes are spelled out and that’s his signature.”

“Yes, but how do I
know
this is really Mr. Townsend’s signature? How do I know you didn’t wrangle the ranch away from him.”

“You
know
because I’m
telling
you. If you don’t want to believe me, Doc Bingham was the witness.”