Oklahoma Bride. Carol Finch
“You are under arrest,”
he muttered as he grabbed her elbow and frog-marched her ashore. “What’s your name, woman?”
She tilted her chin defiantly, clamped her mouth shut and glowered at him as he dragged her alongside him.
“Where did you learn to fight like that?” he asked.
“In places I’m sure you’ve never been, General,” she said impudently.
“Obviously. Where I come from ladies don’t brawl. I have already determined—the hard way—that you’re no lady. Furthermore, I’m not a general. I’m the commandant at Fort Reno. Major Rafe Hunter.”
She twisted to flash him a smirk. “You’re from back East, right? Uppity accent. Imperious demeanor. Wealth and pedigree, no doubt. Don’t you have better things to do than sneak around, assaulting defenseless women?”
“Defenseless?” he hooted. “I can think of a dozen adjectives to describe you, but defenseless isn’t on the list!”
Praise for Carol Finch
“Carol Finch is known for her lightning-fast,
roller-coaster-ride adventure romances that are brimming over with a large cast of characters and dozens of perilous escapades.”
—Romantic Times
Praise for previous titles
Bounty Hunter’s Bride
“Longtime Carol Finch fans…
will be more than satisfied.”
—Romantic Times
Call of the White Wolf
“The wholesome goodness of the characters…
will touch your heart and soul.”
—Rendezvous
“A love story that aims straight for the heart
and never misses.”
—Romantic Times
Oklahoma Bride
Carol Finch
This book is dedicated to my husband, Ed,
and our children, Jill, Jon, Christie, Jeff, Kurt and Shawnna. And to our grandchildren, Blake, Livia, Brooklynn and Kennedy. Hugs and kisses!
A special thank you to my editor, Kim Nadelson.
It is a pleasure to be working with you!
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter One
Indian Territory
April, 1889
R afe Hunter lifted his hand to bring his patrol of soldiers to a halt. His roan gelding, Sergeant, shifted impatiently beneath him, anxious to return to Fort Reno and the anticipated bucket of grain in his stall. Rafe panned the rolling plains that stood knee-high in waving grass then glanced toward the tree-lined creek that meandered southeast.
It was hard to imagine that in a couple of weeks this peaceful countryside would be the site of the nation’s first Land Run. He had the unenviable task of guarding the western boundary to the two million acres of free land. It was his responsibility to insure would-be settlers didn’t jump the gun and sneak in to stake their claims prematurely.
In addition, it was his duty to keep a watchful eye on the Cheyenne-Arapaho reservation near the garrison. The extra obligation of gathering up trespassers demanded long days and stretched his company of soldiers to the limits.
When Rafe glanced over his shoulder, his longtime friend—and second in command—lifted a questioning brow. “A problem, Commander?”
“No, just taking time to appreciate the peaceful moment before all hell breaks loose,” Rafe replied.
Micah Whitfield grinned wryly. “By the end of the month, I wonder if any of us will recall what peaceful feels like.”
Rafe stared past Micah to focus on the five prisoners the patrol had flushed from the nearby creeks. The Sooners—as the army referred to the illegal squatters—had set up camp inside the territory, hoping to claim prime property before thousands of anxious settlers could make the Run. After three weeks of relentless patrolling, Rafe and his company of men had a stockade crammed full of Sooners who refused to follow the rules.
To Rafe Hunter a rule was a rule was a rule. Those who broke the rules paid the consequences.
Rafe’s attention shifted southeast when he picked up a familiar scent in the evening breeze. Micah must have recognized the scent, too, for he followed Rafe’s searching gaze.
“There’s more Sooners hunkering down out there,” Micah said quietly.
Rafe scowled. “There’s always more Sooners scuttling around out there. You capture five and there’s another five waiting to take their place. At the rate we’re going we’ll have to build another stockade to house them all.”
“If you want to make another sweep of the area to determine who started the campfire I’ll go with you,” Micah volunteered.
“No, you take the prisoners back to the fort,” Rafe requested. “I’ll reconnoiter the area alone.”
While Micah led the patrol back to the fort Rafe reined his reluctant mount toward the tree-choked creek. Although he was tired and hungry, he was determined to rout out another nest of Sooners. By damned, this unprecedented Land Run was going to be fair for all participants—at least if he had anything to say about it.
Rafe dismounted and left his gelding to graze. Employing the Indian-warfare skills Micah had taught him, Rafe moved silently along the creek, following the faint scent of smoke that had caught his attention earlier. To his surprise he spotted a young boy dressed in homespun clothes. Rafe scanned the shadows, expecting to see a crowd of Sooners migrating toward the small campfire. He frowned curiously, wondering if the boy’s family had sent him into the territory alone to illegally stake a claim.
The smell of brewing coffee and a simmering pot of beans made Rafe’s stomach growl. He had been on patrol all day, wolfing down trail rations for lunch and wearing calluses on his backside. And here was this scrawny kid, tucked discreetly beneath a copse of trees, preparing a tasty meal and lounging by the fire.
It just hit Rafe all wrong. He wasn’t going to wait until daybreak to come swarming down with his army patrol. He was going to arrest this kid and haul him back to the fort tonight. Then he was going to seek out this boy’s parents and chastise them for sending a child