A Marriage By Chance. Carolyn Davidson
“He’ll live through it,” J.T. snarled, grasping a handful of mane as he swung into his saddle. “Damned horse is spoiled rotten. I should have gotten rid of him a long time ago, traded him in for a good gelding.” He glanced up at Chloe’s stifled laughter.
“You’d never do that and you know it,” she said. “You’re a windbag, Flannery.”
“He’d behave better if he knew how close he is to getting sold,” J.T. growled, drawing up the reins, until the stallion’s nose was pressed close to his chest. “Let’s move out and let him run some of it off.”
“How many head am I missing?” she asked, turning her mare to join him as he allowed the stallion to break into a sharp trot.
He turned his dark gaze on her and Chloe thought for a moment that there was a definite resemblance between man and horse. Both were magnificent specimens, J.T. with his lean, long-legged, yet muscular body, the blood bay sporting black stockings that emphasized the sinewy, narrow lines of his legs and led to the heavy haunches that provided barely leashed power.
“A dozen or so, from what Shorty said,” J.T. answered shortly. He rode, she thought, like a centaur, as though he were a part of the splendid creature between his thighs. And now, his look was impatient as he lowered the brim of his hat with a jerk and nodded at her to take the lead.
They crossed the meadow, and he bent low to open a gate in the pasture fence, allowing her to ride through and waiting to close it behind himself. He caught up to her in moments, the stallion unwilling to be left bringing up the rear. “There’s only one shack, isn’t there?” he asked, and she nodded.
“Never needed more than one. Not with the size of herd I run. We don’t use it much, just during branding and roundup usually.”
They rode the length of the big pasture, and again he opened, then closed, a gate. Now the wide-open range of the northernmost part of the ranch was before them, only the farthest boundaries enclosed by barbed wire. It would be an easy thing, she decided, to clip the wire and run a dozen head of cattle through the opening. The task now was to find the gap in her fence line, and make quick repairs before more of the herd wandered off to Hale Winters’s neighboring ranch.
J.T. loosened his reins, allowing his horse to stretch long, dark legs in a gallop, and Chloe’s black mare followed suit, eager to spend some of her pent-up energy. The chill of spring made her thankful for the coat she wore, and she buttoned the top button with her free hand, tugging her hat lower to protect her from the wind. There was a simple joy in the rolling gallop of her mare, a pleasure that ignored the purpose of this ride.
And it seemed that J.T. shared her thoughts as he turned his head to offer her a look of satisfaction. His gaze narrowed on her face, and he slowed the pace of his mount, motioning with an uplifted hand for her to follow suit. They settled into a easy lope and he rode beside her in silence for a moment, his jaw set, as if he pondered over words he was hesitant to speak.
“We’d make a good team, Chloe. I’d make sure you held your portion of the ranch with no strings attached.” His words were rough-edged, his eyes penetrating, as he turned his gaze in her direction, referring apparently to the sparring they’d done in the tack room.
“We are a team, whether we like it or not, Flannery,” she answered coolly. “And I’ll hold my share of the ranch without your help.”
“I’ve never done this before,” he said, his jaw clenching. “I didn’t make myself clear, apparently.”
“If you’re talking about a wedding, you can forget it,” Chloe said, sudden realization making her aware of his line of thought. She pressed her heels against the mare’s sides, and the horse delivered a spurt of speed. “Besides,” she called, over her shoulder, “we’ve got more important things to be concerned about right now.”
J.T. caught up with her and passed her by, his stallion’s long legs stretching, nostrils flaring as he left the black mare behind. Chloe let her horse run, aware that she was certain to be viewing the bay’s wide haunches. If she wasn’t mistaken, she’d just turned down a backhanded proposal, and damn if it didn’t feel good to get the best of J. T. Flannery.
The wire had indeed been cut, and if the language coming from Tom’s mouth was anything to go by, it had not been an easy task to repair the damage. He and Corky had strained mightily to draw the ends together, winding each cut strand with pliers, their work hampered by the heavy, leather gloves they wore. And still they each bore small gashes, one leaving a dark stain on Tom’s shirt, another on Corky’s cheek still oozing blood.
“You didn’t hear anything?” J.T. asked for the second time, and was given an impatient glare by the older of the two cowhands.
“If I had, you think I wouldn’t have used my shotgun?” Tom asked, his anger obvious. “There wasn’t any reason to stand guard, far as I could see. We’d worked hard all day, and we slept inside the shack.”
Shod horses had crossed the boundary line, their riders cutting the fence and riding a half mile or so onto the Double B before the rustlers had made away with a portion of the herd bedded down by a southward winding, narrow creek. Wise enough to limit their take to a few head at a time, they’d evaded discovery. The tracks J.T. followed for less than a mile had cut across hard, rocky ground, leaving him little trail to follow, mixed in as they were with those of other cattle.
Corky offered a thick slab of beef, tucked between two slices of bread, and J.T. took it gladly. “You get something to eat?” he asked Chloe.
She sat against the wall of the shack, out of the wind, the sun full on her face. Her hat resting on one knee, she looked pensive, he decided, and he stalked over to sit with her.
“Want some of this?” he offered, and was treated to a long look that disdained his crude sandwich.
“I get sick of beef,” she said shortly. “And today, I’m totally fed up with everything attached to owning a cattle ranch.”
“I gave her a biscuit left from breakfast,” Corky said from his perch on a stump.
“Well, I guess you won’t starve then,” J.T. allowed, tucking into his makeshift meal. He wiped his mouth with his bandana and slanted a glance at her. “First time you’ve lost cattle to rustlers?”
“First and last, I hope,” she told him. “It makes me angry to have something stolen that I’ve worked so hard to tend to.”
“We’ll have to bring the herd in closer and keep a weather eye out,” he said, biting into his bread.
“Damn it, anyway. We shouldn’t have to be looking over our shoulder.” She glared at him as if it were somehow his responsibility that such a thing had come to pass. “If I had my way, I’d string the thieves up on the nearest tree,” she said bitterly.
“That’s been done before,” he said agreeably, “but we’ll have to catch them first. On top of that the constable would probably rather we let the law handle it.”
“My pa always said his gun was the law on this ranch.” Her gaze moved to the shotgun slung behind her saddle. “I think he may have had the right idea after all.”
J.T. chewed slowly, then swallowed. “You didn’t always agree with his theory?”
She shook her head. “No. I was all for law and order.” Her eyes flashed anger again and he recognized her frustration. “That was before it happened to me.”
“Yeah, that does make a difference in viewpoint,” he said obligingly. The last bite was gone, and he rose, a single, smooth movement that caught her eye. He offered his hand. “Come on, Chloe. Might as well head back home. There’s not much we can do here. I’ll send Willie and Shorty out this afternoon. Between the four of them, they should be able to round up the best part of the herd and head them toward the north pasture, closer to the house.”
“All right.” She took his hand and allowed him to tug her to