Prettiest Little Horse Thief Read online

  “Poor Orman here thought he was gonna get clean away,” announced Tucker, “but I followed him— ”

  “We followed him,” interrupted Harmon.

  “But I nailed him,” continued Tucker, “with the hammer I always got right here.” He patted his leather belt and the long-handled hammer hanging from a leather loop along the right side.

  Les stepped up to Orman. “You just tied your wagon to Dent’s,” he said. He led him to the narrow cell across from Dent’s. “Our jail hasn’t been this busy since Lawrence Morrow and his gang of cattle rustlers was caught and hung— ” he added with a smile. “They thought they were pretty wise, too.”

  Dent wrapped his hands around the iron bars of his cell. “You fool,” he said, peering at Orman through the bars. “I’d-a thought you and Rance woulda had more sense. Wait ’til a better time.”

  Orman shrugged. “You know Rance.”

  Les shoved Orman into the cell before slamming the door shut. It clanged loudly. “You just make yourselves to home now. The judge comes around on Tuesday.”

  “You can’t keep us locked up ’til then,” Orman whined.

  “You fired on two lawmen in addition to threatening the whole damn town. You won’t be going anywhere anytime soon, so might as well settle in. And I’m not gonna listen to you fools all day and night, so shut your traps.” He turned to Colt. “If I was you, I’d get back to Becca. Things haven’t been too good out there since you left, and Naomi can’t get her to take any help at all.”

  From his cell, Dent laughed. “That two-bit horse thief? She needs a good whooping— ”

  Colt spun around. “You say one more word about my wife, and we won’t be waiting for any circuit judge.”

  Dent smiled, but said nothing more. Orman spat another long stream of brown spittle before leaning toward Dent’s cell. “She the one we seen down at the stream?”

  “Shut up,” hushed Dent.

  ****

  Rebecca plumped the pillows up around Shih-chai. “I’m going to fix up a bowl of mush,” she said. “You haven’t eaten enough to fatten a scarecrow.”

  Shih-chai shook his head. “Shih-chai does not need food.”

  Rebecca sat down next to the old Indian. She looped her fingers through the frayed tatting lining the edge of the cotton sheet stretched across his body. As she studied his worn face she pushed back her tears. What would she have done if he’d died? He’d become her family in the year she’d been in Arizona, as much or more than her sister.

  Thinking of Naomi, Rebecca felt a surge of regret. She hadn’t spoken to her since the day she stomped out of the house. She knew it was up to her to apologize, but she didn’t want to. She didn’t want to admit she was angry. Angry about Colt Ryman and the absurdity of the events that had led her into this sham marriage.

  What a fool she’d been!

  Shih-chai suddenly reached for her. “You must not be afraid,” he said.

  Shih-chai’s hand, weathered and callused, brought her back to the moment. “Afraid?” she whispered. She got up and brushed off her apron impatiently. “I’m not afraid— of anything.”

  Shih-chai sighed. “You very much afraid,” he said. “Be happy.”

  Rebecca shrugged. “I’m happy. Or, happy enough,” she added. “Life is what it is, Grandfather. I accept that.”

  Shih-chai frowned. “Colt éí yá'át'ééh. A good man.”

  She grimaced. “You believe that?”

  “Yes.”

  ****

  Colt reached the farmhouse just as the descending Arizona sun cast its rose glow across the arid landscape. He swung down and approached the house cautiously. It had been ten days since he’d left Rebecca and Shih-chai, and while he hoped she’d be pleased he’d captured Dent, he wasn’t so sure. Rebecca was not a woman he understood— at least, not yet.

  He tapped on the door, then opened it slowly. The dim interior was lit by the fire in the narrow stone fireplace on the opposite wall as well as by the oil lamp sitting on the table.

  He pushed the door open wider and stepped inside.

  Rebecca stood at the edge of the fireplace, the warm firelight dancing across her face like ribbons of glittering gold. She frowned. “Hello,” she said.

  Colt hesitated. “Hello.” He took another step toward her. “We got him.”

  She squinted as she noticed the cut on his face. “You’re hurt.”

  “Not bad.”

  She ignored him as she crossed the floor to where a squat pitcher and bowl sat on a small table. She picked up the cotton cloth folded there and dipped it into the bowl. “Sit down,” she said, returning with the wet cloth.

  “How’s Shih-chai?”

  She eyed him critically. “Alive. But not well.” She glanced over at the bed in the alcove.

  Colt’s gaze followed hers and he saw that Shih-chai was asleep. “I’m sorry. I should have stayed, helped, but I— ”

  Rebecca ignored him. “Sit down,” she repeated.

  Colt sighed, but moved to the chair nearest him and sat down. He kept his eyes on Rebecca, trying to decipher her strange, bitter mood and her cold, terse words. He raised his face so that she could doctor his wound, all the while, his eyes raking the beautiful contours of her face and neck and shoulders.

  She was almost too lovely, he thought. But she was not going to give him a chance. That much was clear. Yet, if he’d hurt her, did that mean she might just care more than she realized?

  The thought gave him hope.

  If only he could say it out loud— the way he felt. If only he could reach out and draw her close—

  “We got him,” he said once more.

  She was dabbing at the blood and dirt that had dried on his face. The cut was superficial but long, stretching from the ridge of his cheek down to the line of his jaw. He winced, but said nothing; he didn’t want to give her any reason to think her ministrations were unwelcome.

  She kept her eyes averted, and suddenly, her disregard for him triggered something deep inside. “Look at me,” he said, and he reached up and grabbed her by her wrist. “Dammit, look at me!”

  She tried to pull away, but he held her fast.

  “Why are you so damned set against me?” he hissed.

  She pursed her lips. “You should have had a stitch or two,” she said. “It’s going to leave a scar.”

  “I don’t care,” he snapped. He pulled her close. “I don’t care about my face. I’d have taken a bullet if that would have made a difference.”

  “How would taking a bullet make a difference?”

  “If taking a bullet could have kept Shih-chai safe, or you safe— ” He hesitated. “I only wish I’d finished off Dent in the beginning. If I’d have done that— ”

  Rebecca turned her face away. “If you’d have done that, you’d be in jail, instead of Dent.”

  “So?”

  “So— that’s not what I would ever want,” she whispered.

  “No?”

  “No.”

  ****

  Without waiting, Colt jumped to his feet and drew her into his arms. His breath came in deep, unrestrained sighs. He felt her trembling through the heavy fabric of his clothes.

  She relaxed in his embrace, and his heart thumped wildly. Her body spoke what her lips could not. He lowered his face to hers and kissed her gently, the flesh of her lips warm and sweet and intoxicating.

  “Don’t you know what you’ve done?” He whispered into the tendrils of hair that had fallen free of its ribbon. “You may not be a horse thief, Rebecca Williams Ryman, but you stole my heart the minute you entered my life. The moment I lifted you up onto Old Marse and brought you here.”

  ****

  Tears filled Rebecca’s eyes as she struggled to maintain her composure. How had this man managed to step into her life and turn it upside down? Where was that tough determination she’d cultivated over the last year— that resolve that would protect her heart and mind from sorrow and pain— and love?

  Her b
ody, with a mind of its own, had already molded itself inside Colt’s overpowering embrace. “You’re the outlaw,” she whispered. “You rode in out of nowhere, roped me into a marriage I— I deplored— and— ”

  He chuckled. “Deplored?” he teased, his voice vibrating against the flesh of her neck. “Tell me how much you deplore me. Tell me how much you want me to leave and never return. I saw the valise you packed that first night. Do you think I would ever, could ever, let you escape?”

  “You had no right to trap me into marriage,” she whispered into his shoulder.

  He pulled back. “How else could I have caught you?” he said.

  She shook her head. “I don’t know.”

  “So be it,” he quipped, suddenly lifting her into his arms. “It’s settled. I am your husband. You are my bride— my wife. And there’s no turning back.”

  Rebecca hesitated.

  Colt grew serious. “You can trust me, Rebecca.”

  Rebecca fought back her tears. “After Frank, I didn’t want to trust another man. I resigned myself to simply moving on. It was enough that I had Shih-chai and what was left of this place.” She took a slow deep breath. “And I thought, what if you rode out of my life as easily as you rode in? I didn’t want to take a chance, not even on you.”

  Colt waited before responding. “And now?”

  She blushed as she wrapped her arms around his neck. “I think I’m ready to take a chance, Mr. Ryman. But only because it’s you.”

  “Colt. My name is Colt.”

  “Yes,” Rebecca returned, letting her fingers slide along the edge of the wound on his face. “Colt.” His name felt warm in places she’d never imagined until now, and she blushed again.

  “That’s right,” Colt said. “Colt, husband, dear…I will answer to any of those— ”

  Rebecca laughed. “And what will you call me?”

  “Hmm. Wife? Rebecca? Becca?” He hesitated. “No. I will call you My Love.”

  Rebecca colored. Frank had never called her anything so sweet. She studied this man, her husband, her love. “Yes, dear.”

  He kissed her then, gently, but she felt him grow hard with his need for her.

  Instinctively, she found herself kissing him in return— willingly but shyly—

  He pulled back and smiled. “I don’t think Shih-chai will mind if we borrow his tidy little nest out in the barn, do you, My Love?”

  Rebecca giggled. “I don’t think Grandfather would mind at all.” And with that, she found his mouth, and kissed him without reservation.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR— GAIL L. JENNER

  Gail L. Jenner is the wife of a fourth generation cattle rancher. They live on the original family homestead where history is part of everyday life. A former history and English teacher, Gail is the author of five regional nonfiction histories (published by Arcadia Publishing and Old American Publishing), and two novels, including the WILLA Award-winning novel, ACROSS THE SWEET GRASS HILLS. Gail and her husband have three married children and seven grandchildren. A gardener and cook, she enjoys cooking for ranch hands, family, and friends. In addition to all of this, she enjoys time on the ranch— working cows on horseback or working as her husband’s sidekick. In her spare time, she is a partner in Jenner Family Beef and works as a volunteer librarian, museum curator, and appears as a speaker at local and regional educational and writing workshops.

  For more about Gail, visit: www.gailjenner.com

  https://www.facebook.com/pages/Author-Gail-L-Jenner

  http://gailjenner.blogspot.com

  http://www.jennerfamilybeef.com/bios-the-jenner-cowgirls.html#gail

  Also by Gail L.Jenner

  July’s Bride

  July Chandler doesn’t need another wife, but when Amanda Hoffman comes west as a “mail order bride” to marry him, sparks fly when she is hired to nurse his young son after an accident. It isn’t long before the confusion over the arrangement becomes clear to all...but is it too late for them to find love amid the chaos? Amanda suddenly finds she has other choices, but she only wants to become JULY'S BRIDE.

  Across the Sweet Grass Hills

  Liza Ralston has had more adventure in her life than she ever wanted. Leaving her settled existence with friends and family in St. Louis to travel to the Big Sky country of wild Montana with her father, she soon wishes she could turn the clock back. When their scout is murdered and her father is severely wounded by thieves, the Pikuni tribe led by Crying Wind takes them in. But Liza wants nothing more than to return to St. Louis, despite her growing attraction for Red Eagle, the handsome son of a white trapper and Blackfeet mother.

  Red Eagle has tried to help Liza and her father, but Liza has a mind of her own. She doesn’t understand that the refined ways of civilized society in St. Louis have not yet reached the untamed land she is traveling now with her missionary father—a man who has secrets of his own that he is unwilling to share. She is left with no choice but to accept the help of Red Eagle’s tribe to save the life of her father. But the events leading up to Baker’s Massacre of 1870 force her to discover a new path for herself—a path leading to love, redemption…and revenge.

  Will Red Eagle and Liza find the love they’ve been waiting for? Beauty, treachery and danger lie ACROSS THE SWEET GRASS HILLS.

  ACROSS THE SWEET GRASS HILLS won the 2002 WILLA Literary Award for Best Softcover Fiction, by Women Writing the West. It also placed as a quarter-finalist in the 2000 Chesterfield Film Project.

  www.prairierosepublications.com