Comanche Cowboy

Book 3: Panorama of the Old West

by Georgina Gentry

Genres: Historical Fiction; Sagas; Historical Romance

Synopsis

"Georgina Gentry brings the West to life and gives her fans hours of true reading pleasure", raved "Romantic Times". Now, she enchants readers once again with the story of a desperate woman who must make the agonizing choice of saving her father--or the man she loves.

Release date: September 1, 1988

Publisher: Zebra

Print pages: 512

Sample

Wichita, Kansas. Late June, 1874

This called for drastic action. Cayenne paused in the middle of the dusty street to study the scrawling handwriting of the letter she’d just opened.

Wrinkling her freckled nose unconsciously, she reread the plea, thinking tenderly about Papa. It wasn’t fair that she always had to shoulder every family crisis and problem just because she was the oldest. But if not her, who? And if she went back, just what could she do about it?

Cayenne stroked a wisp of red hair out of her eyes, squinted, and looked up and down the deserted street. In the late afternoon heat, only a sleepy hound ambled by. Even the horses tied to the hitching rail in front of the Red Garter Saloon across the river bridge seemed to doze, while inside their owners gambled and cleared their throats of trail dust.

Curious, she looked up at the second-story windows above the saloon. One of the lace curtains moved slightly. Was it only the breeze? Or was someone watching her? The prying of some dancing girl was the least of her worries right now. Cayenne stuffed the letter into the pocket of the green cotton dress and tried to decide how to proceed.

My stars, Cayenne, she thought a little desperately as she looked around, you can’t handle this alone. Just what are you going to do?

Old Mr. Winston limped out of his general store, stirring the dust up on the wooden sidewalk with a ragged broom. “Afternoon, ma’am,” he nodded. “Sorry the job only lasted three months, but we did tell you it was only temporary ’til our schoolmaster got back from seein’ about his sick Ma. . . .”

“I couldn’t have stayed anyway.” She ran her tongue across the dust on her lips. “Something’s come up, a . . . family problem. I’ve got to get back to west Texas soon as I can.”

Maybe Mr. Winston could suggest someone. She squared her small shoulders, lifted her hem to keep it out of the dust, and strode over to face him. Off-key music from the saloons across the Arkansas drifted on the sweltering air. “Now that Aunt Ella’s died, I’ve got no reason to be in Kansas anyhow.” Cayenne felt the crumpled letter in her pocket. “Mr. Winston, I—I’m in need of a special man, a man who can handle himself with his fists or in a gunfight.” She hesitated at the look of shock and curiosity on his wrinkled face. “Now where do you suppose I’d find a man like that?”

“A gunfighter?” He paused, leaning on his broom. “I suppose you’re funnin’ me, ain’t you, miss? A lady like you shouldn’t be gettin’ mixed up with trash and saddle tramps.”

“Now that’s for me to decide, isn’t it?” She fixed him with a calm green gaze. “Would you know someone like that?”

“Lord, no! Hope I never do!” His rheumy eyes were wide with curiosity. “If you’re in some kind of trouble, ma’am, the sheriff’ll be back in town in a couple of days. . . .”

“But he wouldn’t have any jurisdiction anyway down in Texas and this is a . . . private matter.” Now just why hadn’t Papa Joe called in the law himself? There was more to this than met the eye.

A woman’s raucous laughter floated through the batwing doors of the Red Garter. The shopkeeper frowned and gestured with his broom. “That’s where the trail herds come in, where the gamblers and such hang out. That why we keep that street of iniquity across the river, away from decent folks! And that Red Garter is the worst!”

She turned, looking up again at the distant upstairs windows, unable to shake the feeling that she was being watched.

Maverick Durango looked out at the pretty fiery-haired girl through the lace curtain in Goodtime Molly’s room. Without thinking, he whistled low.

The pretty whore sitting on the bed laughed as she paused in unbuttoning her yellow satin dress. “That whistle of appreciation for me, cowboy?” she laughed. “I know you been a long time on the trail, but just hold your horses ’til I get my clothes off! I’ll fix you a drink. Bourbon and branch, same as always?”

He turned to accept the smudged glass and sipped the raw, cheap whiskey. Up until he’d looked out the window, Goodtime Molly had seemed exciting and desirable. Now he frowned at her with eyes as gray as the barrel of the Colt strapped low on his hip. The whore was not as pretty as she’d once been, even though she had magnificent hair. But her hair was dark, not red.

Maverick peered out at the girl in the street. The hot breeze brought him a light scent he couldn’t quite identify. Sugar cookies? No, not quite that either. Whatever it was, he liked it. He took a deep breath as he leaned against the window and sipped the whiskey and water.

“Molly, come take a look,” he muttered. “Who’s that girl standing just across the bridge?”

The smile faded on her painted mouth as she sauntered over to the window, looked out, and snorted with derision. “Me and the new little schoolmarm don’t exactly travel in the same social circles. Her name’s Cayenne, never heard no last name. That’s all I know about her.” Molly’s tone sounded cold, jealous. “You can get your sights off that one, you big Injun. I doubt she’s even been kissed, much less—”

“Don’t call me Injun, you hear me?” His dark-skinned hand reached out, grabbed her throat.

“Sure, Maverick, sure.” Her painted eyes widened with fear as she shook his hand off her dirty neck. “Forgot how touchy you was about that Comanche blood. . . .”

“Sorry I was rough. I got no respect for any hombre who’d hurt a woman.” He leaned against the window frame, looking down, studying the creamy-skinned girl standing in the middle of the dusty street. Her hair reflected the light like a prairie fire.

“Cayenne?” His Texas drawl turned it into Kii’ anne. He thought about the cayenne peppers used in the fiery Mexican food around San Antone. “Wonder if her disposition matches her hair?”

Molly frowned down at the girl and back at him, her stained dress half open, revealing her dirty chemise. “That one couldn’t satisfy you, Maverick honey. She probably ain’t never had a man between her legs, wouldn’t know what to do with one if she did!”

He took a good look at Molly. The whore must be pushing forty and looked every day of it. The urge he’d had all these long weeks on the trail faded. As she leaned toward him, that mysterious scent on the breeze was overpowered by Molly’s strong perfume. But even then he smelled the reek of men on her skin, wondered suddenly how many had already taken Molly today. He turned away from her and back to the window.

Probably ain’t never had a man between her legs. He had a sudden vision of the redhead’s long, silken legs wrapped around his dark, hard-driving hips. He imagined her warm and yielding in his arms, the soft mouth opening to his probing tongue. I’d like to be the one to teach her. That one wouldn’t take on a man for money. No, not that one. He hadn’t known many women like that.

Absently he ran his finger down the white knife scar on his high-boned cheek while he admired the pert girl in the green dress in the street. She turned and looked at him, her flame-colored hair cascading around her small face. “Now there’s a real lady,” he nodded. “A real lady!”

The pretty whore swore under her breath. “By God, you want me or not, cowboy?” She pulled her dirty chemise down and thrust her big breasts at him provocatively. “I figured after all those weeks on the trail, you needed what I got to offer.” Molly scowled. “Or you gonna keep lookin’ out the window at Miss Purity?”

His calloused hand reached out and cupped the whore’s sweating breast, wondering how many men’s mouths had tasted those nipples. The noise of laughter, music, and whirling roulette wheels drifted through the closed door. All these weeks on the cattle drive from Texas, his body aching for the relief of a woman, and now . . .

“Here, Molly.” He reached in his vest, took out two silver dollars, and stuffed them in the front of her soiled lace underwear, smiling at the way she started at the touch of the cold metal. “I’ve just changed my mind, but I wouldn’t want you telling everyone the trail boss of the Triple D didn’t pay for taking up your time.”

She put her hands on her hips and looked over his tall frame. “Aw, come on, Maverick, don’t disappoint me! I ain’t had such a stud since you was in town last year.” She reached up and put her arms around his neck.

But he turned his face away from her smeared painted mouth, recoiling from the rank scent of dirt and men’s seed on her sweating body in spite of the strong perfume. “Maybe next time, Molly. The crew’s waitin’ for me to get back. I’ve made the deal, just waiting for the bank to finish the paperwork.”

She rubbed her breasts against his wide chest. “Come on, you sweet half-breed,” she purred. “You know how to make a woman like it! Every trail drive I look forward to you gettin’ here. Tell you what, I’ll even give you your money back. Quick and free, how’s that?”

“Sorry, Molly,” he laughed easily as he picked up his hat and brushed back his straight black hair. The boys’ll be wonderin’ what happened to me. Shouldn’t even have stopped for a quick drink.”

The ache in his groin intensified and he was tempted to take Molly up on her offer. He wouldn’t even undress for a quick one. With his eyes shut, could he imagine the cheap whore was that small redhead?

Never even been kissed. He felt abruptly annoyed and angry with the sassy girl for disrupting his thoughts. Molly had looked as tasty as sugar candy when he’d first entered her room. Damn that little schoolteacher anyhow!

But the whore came back to the window, looking down through the torn lace curtain. “Miss Innocent keeps lookin’ over here like she’s seen us, like she might be thinking of coming in the saloon.”

He shook his head, set his glass down, and began rebuttoning the shirt he’d been taking off at the moment he’d seen the flame-haired beauty from the window. “Naw. That kind don’t come in saloons.”

He watched the girl march over to the old storekeeper. “Feisty as a fox terrier,” he muttered, liking the way her fiery hair bounced on her neck as she walked. The slim teacher paused again, looked his direction. Her eyes were probably green like her dress. No, green like new spring pasture, like shimmering dragonfly wings . . .

Molly said something and he started. He had forgotten she was even in the room. But one thing was certain: He’d completely lost his appetite for the pretty whore.

Molly sauntered over to her mirror, checking her dark hair as she always did. “Do I look older to you, Maverick?” She searched, found one gray hair, and pulled it.

“No, Molly,” he said automatically, because he knew what she wanted to hear although he knew she lied about her age. She did have a magnificent mane of ebony hair, he thought. But truth was, her mileage was starting to show. In another five years her wrinkles would deepen until her face looked like a rutted country road. “You’re pretty, just like always. Quit lookin’ for gray hairs.”

“You didn’t say nothin’ about my new combs.” She preened before the cracked mirror, readjusting the pearl combs in her dark locks. “I got an admirer who’s sweet on me, wants to marry me. He had these sent all the way from St. Joe.”

“Uh huh.” He wasn’t really listening or looking at her. Feisty as a fox terrier. The redhead walked through his mind. “I think I better get back to my crew.” Maverick buttoned most of his shirt before his hand reached for reassurance to his holster and the loop of rawhide hung on his gun belt. “Keep the money,” he said. “There’s other men downstairs waitin’ for you to show ’em a good time.”

“Well, I got to make a livin’,” she huffed, rearranging her dress and buttoning it. “There’s only been one other man besides you I’d have left this life for, but that was almost twenty-five years ago when I was as young and innocent as that redhead. . . .” Her voice trailed off, and then she glared at him. “But the fact I’m loco over you don’t mean nothin’ to you. No woman means nothin’ to you. Someday, Maverick, some woman’s gonna cause you heartache. I hope I live to see it.”

“Don’t bet on it,” he snapped. Some woman already had. But not in the way Molly thought. Maverick frowned and shook his head, the old guilt coming back. It never quite left him, really, always burning like a slow fire in his soul.

She adjusted her corset and looked at him thoughtfully. “I wish I knew what makes you tick, handsome. What the key is to your dark, brooding heart.”

He winked at her, laughing a little too lightly. “They say I never forget a friend and I never, never forgive an enemy.”

The whore shook her head. “It’s the Injun in you, I reckon. Jesus! I hope you never get a grudge against me! I bet if you was after a man, you’d keep lookin’ no matter what.” She brushed wisps of hair back and caught them up with the fine combs.

How had she stumbled on that bit of truth?

“You’ll never know how right you are, Molly,” he muttered, thinking about Joe McBride. More than ten years. But he’d keep looking if it took a lifetime.

A frown crossed his rugged, dark face. Someday he would find that man. Maverick intended to kill him slowly, painfully. Very slowly and painfully as only a man raised by the Comanche knew how. The Kentuckian would beg for the mercy of death before the trail boss finished with him.

Molly gave him a long look. “You’re a hard man, Maverick Durango. I almost feel sorry for the poor devil, whoever he is.”

“Don’t,” he shrugged, reaching for the doorknob. “He was mean, low-down—”

“Naw, I knew the meanest, rottenest man in the world-Bill Slade.”

Maverick frowned. “But if you knew what this bastard did—”

“Must have been over a woman.” She sauntered over to the bureau, picked up her drink, and sipped it.

He kept his face a cold, hard mask. “What makes you think so?”

Molly smiled knowingly. “No man hates another that passionately over money or cattle. Naw, it had to be a woman. Was she pretty?”

Only when she smiled, he thought, and winced at the memory of Annie’s delicate features. Only when she smiled.

Downstairs, the off-key piano tinkled out a new song and the melody drifted up the rickety stairs: . . . Maxwell’s braes are bonnie, where early falls the dew, and that’s where Annie Laurie gave me her promise true. . . .

The old anguish hit Maverick, twisting his gut in real pain. His dark hand turned white as he gripped the doorknob.

“What’s the matter, half-breed? You hurt?” Her voice sounded half curious, half sympathetic.

“No, I—I’m all right,” he muttered, straightening his broad shoulders. He opened the door.

She sneered, her jealous laughter carrying across the plaintive notes floating up the rickety stairs. “I hope some pretty thing does hurt you, you big stud! You think I don’t know why you changed your mind just now?” She stood, arms akimbo. “But if you think you’ll get a chance to play the stallion to that little sorrel filly, you’d best forget it! I hear she has some reason to hate Comanches. . . .”

“Not as much as I do,” Maverick muttered, his hand going unconsciously to the jagged knife scar on his rugged cheek. “Not half as much as I do!”

Cayenne looked again at the window and turned back to the old shopkeeper. “I guess I’ll just have to try the Red Garter.” She took a deep breath, lifted her green skirts, and marched down the dusty street, across the wooden bridge with her bustle swaying and her red hair bouncing.

“But, ma’am, a lady can’t go in there!” Mr. Winston’s voice wailed in indignation.

“You just watch me!” she flung back over her shoulder. “Don’t ever tell a Texan gal what she can or can’t do!”

But in spite of her brave words, she paused by the hitching rail, listening to the loud laughter and plaintive music from inside the saloon. Never in her nineteen years had she entered a place like that. There were only two kinds of women on the western frontier and her kind stayed in their own territory of homes, schools, and church.

A big gray stallion at the hitching rail whinnied and she reached out to pat its velvet nose, glancing at the brand on its hip. The Triple D, she thought, that big ranching empire in the Texas Hill country of Austin and San Antone, a long way east of her father’s Lazy M spread.

“Nice boy,” she patted the silky muzzle, staring curiously at the unusual bridle. It really wasn’t a bridle at all, just a rawhide thong twisted around its lower jaw, Indian style. My stars, what is that hairy thing hanging from the bridle? No, it couldn’t be. . . . Or could it?

She looked back at the shopkeeper. He frowned in obvious disapproval. A man sang drunkenly from inside the saloon. One of the horses tied to the rail stamped its feet, stirring up dust and a buzzing fly.

Cayenne licked her lips nervously as she paused at the saloon doors, listening.

. . . and that’s where Annie Laurie gave me her promise true. Gave me her promise true, that ne’er forgot will be . . .

She smiled, thinking fondly of her father. The thought of him steeled her wavering resolve. She had to go in even though she had no idea what one paid a gunfighter. All she’d managed to save from her salary was eighteen dollars and twenty-five cents. Could she hire the kind of man she needed for that? No man would risk his life for that amount of money. What else did she have to offer?

Cayenne quavered before the saloon doors, whistling the old folk tune softly under her breath. Mr. Winston was probably right. The kind of cutthroats and trail trash inside this place couldn’t be trusted. Eighteen dollars and twenty-five cents. Not nearly enough. She did have one thing she could trade for help, she thought reluctantly, one thing that might tempt some rough, virile man.

Oh, Lord, she couldn’t do it. She half turned away, not liking the images that came to mind of some tough, dirty gunfighter running his hands over her skin, his hot, wet mouth covering hers.

Maybe the governor . . . No, don’t you remember you thought of that first? she chided herself. Your family supported the South. You can’t expect any help from a damned Yankee carpetbagger government. Besides, if what you suspect is true . . .

It wasn’t fair that the oldest child always seemed to be the one to deal with all the problems. But life wasn’t always fair, she reminded herself. Her four little sisters couldn’t do anything, and Papa seemed to have reason not to. That left it all up to Cayenne. With a trembling hand, she pushed open the swinging doors and entered.

Gave me her promise true, that ne’er forgot will be . . .

It was dark and smoky inside and smelled of stale beer. For a long moment, as her eyes adjusted to the dimness of the interior, Cayenne paused. Painted, brash women sat familiarly on chair arms, rubbing against cardplayers. Tough, trail-weary men leaned on the bar, one foot on the brass rail.

. . . And for darlin’ Annie Laurie, I’d lay me doon and dee . . .

The music stopped abruptly as the short player seemed to see her for the first time. The laughter and talk trailed off as curious people turned to look.

Cayenne smiled to hide her nervousness. “H—hello,” she stammered.

A bald man came around from behind the bar. “Ma’am, I’m sorry, but I don’t ’low no collecting for school bazaars and such. . . .”

“That’s not why I’m here.” She twisted her hands together, looking into the sea of curious faces. A movement on the stairs caught her eye. A dark man, his shirt partially unbuttoned, had come halfway down, followed by a heavily painted woman. Cayenne blushed as she realized suddenly what they had been doing upstairs, that they might have been the eyes staring out at her.

The tall cowboy on the stairs looked at her a long moment. He might have been in his middle twenties, but his weathered features made it hard to tell. His eyes were as gray as a summer storm and a white knife scar marred his high cheekbone. “Ma’am,” he drawled, and she recognized the accent of a fellow Texan, “you shouldn’t be in a place like this.” His low, authoritative voice sounded as if he were about to order her out of the Red Garter.

Cayenne stiffened, bringing her chin up stubbornly. “I expect I’ll decide that,” she snapped. “You see, I’m looking for a man.”

A couple of the men nodded understandingly and the bald man wiped his hands on his grimy apron. “Oh, I see. Now, little lady, you tell us what your daddy looks like and if he’s here havin’ a drink. . . .”

“No,” she flared, reluctantly taking her gaze off the dark cowboy and the leering woman behind him on the stairs. “I came looking for a man.” The words tumbled out.

A drunken buffalo hunter at the bar gestured the bartender away. “Well, honey, will I do?” He swaggered over and put his hand on her shoulder while the others laughed. He was bearded and so filthy that he stank. Even his bright red shirt was stiff with grime and encrusted blood from his kills. Dark sweat stained beneath the arms of the Turkey-red cotton. Around his dirty neck he wore a beaded Indian necklace.

“Let go of me.” Cayenne tried to pull away. “I meant I’m trying to hire a man.”

The bald man looked at the two of them uncertainly. “Now, Buck,” he said, “you shouldn’t—”

“Go to hell!” The giant hunter swayed a little, looking down at her. When he spoke again, she could smell stale whiskey on his sour breath. “Honey, I’m for hire. In fact, I’d gladly go with you for nothin’!”

The crowd laughed again as Cayenne tried to pull away.

“Get your hands off her!” The voice rang out like a pistol shot. The others stopped laughing, looking uncertainly at the virile man on the stairs, then at each other.

The bartender wiped sweat from his shiny head. “Buck, you better do like he says. I’d be afraid to cross Maverick if I was you. . . .”

“No Injun’s gonna tell me what to do!” The drunk patted his holstered pistol, then pulled Cayenne into his embrace. “You wanted a man, honey. You got more man than you can handle right here!”

She slapped him hard as she struggled to keep his wet mouth off hers. Past his shoulder, she caught a blur of movement as the big half-breed moved as fast and silent as any warrior.

“I told you to get your hands off her! Don’t you comprende, amigo?” Maverick grabbed the man by the shoulder, spinning him around. Cayenne stumbled backward.

The drunk went for his gun, and in that split second Maverick’s dark hand reached for the strip of rawhide on his gunbelt, looping it over the man’s head. As Cayenne watched helplessly, Maverick caught the man across the kidneys with a hard chop of his hand.

With a scream of pain, the buffalo hunter doubled up, went to his knees, and the Indian tightened the loop around the sunburned neck.

“By damn, I told you not to touch her, you piece of trash! That’s a lady! Don’t you know how to treat a lady? Then I’ll show you!”

Cayenne put her hands over her mouth to keep from screaming. No man attempted to interfere or even moved except for the sobbing, struggling drunk and the half-breed tightening the rawhide around his neck.

“My stars!” she screamed. “You’ll choke him to death! Don’t kill him! Don’t kill him!”

But she could see the bottled rage behind the gray eyes as he tightened the loop until it cut into the drunk’s flesh. “Apologize to the lady,” Maverick snarled between clenched teeth. “Apologize, or I’ll kill you!”

Cayenne looked around in desperation. “Won’t anyone help?”

The bartender shrugged helplessly. “Lady, you started all this!”

A gambler leaned over to the short piano player. “I’ll give you odds he’ll twist his head completely off!”

“What kind of animals are you all?” Cayenne scolded, and she ran over, pounding Maverick on the chest. “Don’t kill him! You hear, don’t kill him! He’s just a drunk!”

Maverick’s eyes widened at her spirited onslaught but he didn’t turn loose, fending her off with one arm. The drunk gasped, trying vainly to get his fingers under the thong. “Lady,” Maverick said, “it’s you I was protecting! He’ll apologize or I’ll kill him!”

The drunk rolled his eyes at Cayenne as he struggled for breath.

“Dearie,” the woman on the stairs laughed as Cayenne flew into the half-breed again, “if you was a man, Maverick’d kill you for that!”

But Cayenne was mad now, fighting mad. “Let him go! You hear me? Let him go!”

Maverick held her off with one big hand. “By damn! I was tryin’ to help you, ma’am!”

He loosened the noose a little and the drunk gasped for air. “Sorry,” he croaked, “didn’t know she belonged to you. . . . ”

Maverick jerked the thong off suddenly, putting it back on his belt. The drunk fell sobbing on his face.

Cayenne pulled free of Maverick’s hand and readjusted her dress. “My stars! You were going to kill him. . . .”

“You started this, miss,” Maverick growled, pushing his hat back as he looked down at her. “A girl like you has no business coming into a saloon! Now get out of here before some other stud decides to paw you!”

Cayenne put her hands on her hips and looked up at him. “Now just who do you think you are, bossing me around like that? I came in here to hire a man. . . .”

Maverick took her arm and propelled her toward the swinging doors in spite of her resistance. “By damn, you are a peppery little thing, aren’t you?”

She stopped struggling as he dragged her outside into the sunlight because it suddenly occurred to her that she’d found just the kind of man she needed for this job.

“You’ll do.” She sized him up and down as he let go her arm. “But I’ve only got eighteen dollars and twenty-five cents.”

He scowled at her and she realized suddenly why men seemed afraid of him. The scar down his left cheek gave him a menacing appearance and the way he wore his gun told her he knew how to use it.

“What? I don’t know what you’re talking about, miss,” He patted the big stallion’s nose affectionately and it whinnied softly.

She stared at the horse, the hairy object swinging from the bridle. “Is that . . . what I think it is?”

He looked at her with such a cold expression that she shivered despite the June heat. “What do you think it is?” he challenged.

Somehow she knew. Oh, God, what kind of a man was this who’d kill a man to protect the honor of a woman he didn’t even know? What kind of an uncivilized savage had a scalp tied to his bridle? The kind of man she needed for this dangerous task, she thought desperately. “Never mind. What I’m trying to tell you is I came looking for a man to hire, a man like you.”

He shrugged, patting the horse. “Whoa, Dust Devil. Take it easy, boy.” To her he said, “Sorry, miss, old Don Durango needs me and I’m beholden to him.”

“I’d pay more if I could,” she said, “but that’s all I’ve got.”

He tipped his hat back, his expression a mixture of exasperation and amusement. “I told you I’m not for hire. Now you’ll just have to find another handy man, errand boy, or whatever. By this time tomorrow, I expect to be headed back down to the Triple D if I don’t end up in jail for havin’ fun tonight.” He took a deep breath. “Sugar cookies,” he said. “No”—he leaned closer to her—“not quite sugar cookies, it’s—”

“Vanilla,” she flushed. “Papa says only hussies wear strong scent.”

“Vanilla! I heard little country girls used it for perfume.” He leaned closer, sniffed again. “Umm. I like that.”

For a moment she thought he would put his face right down into her hair, but then he seemed to remember and straightened up.

“I saw the way you handled yourself in there.” Cayenne caught his arm, realizing how big and powerful he really was. He could have killed her with one hard blow when she foolishly attacked him in the Red Garter. “You’re just the man I need for this job.”

“No. N—ooo.” He shook her hand off his arm. “No comprende, Senorita? What is this job you’re tryin’ to fill anyhow?”

He wouldn’t ask if he weren’t curious, if he weren’t weakening. She was desperate enough to use her charm as a weapon. Cayenne looked up at him, lips slightly parted. “My papa’s sick,” she lied, “so I got to get back to our ranch right away.”

He took a deep breath and smiled slightly. “So?”

The words came in a rush so that he couldn’t stop her. “I need someone to escort me down across western Indian Territory to the Texas Panhandle and south from there.”

He threw his head back and laughed. “Are you loco? Do I look like a complete fool? Everyone knows there’s an Indian war just startin’! Ma’am, you’re talking about a trip of hundreds of miles across dry, hostile country and dodgin’ Indians all the way!”

“I’d heard there was a little trouble with the Southern Plains tribes. . . .”

“A little trouble!” He laughed again, reaching into his shirt for a small sack of tobacco and a paper. “Lady, there’s thousands of Cheyenne, Arapaho, and Comanche on the warpath right where you’re wantin’ to ride through. It’s touch and go whether the Kiowa will join up with them.”

“But you just came from Texas. . . .”

?