Oklahoma Wedding Bells

The woman was bristling with indignation and bad temper—all directed at him. And Grant swore the brunette had a worse disposition? Ha! She had nothing on this sassy blonde, who hadn’t even bothered to thank him for risking his neck to save her gorgeous hide.

“You’re welcome, by the way,” he said sarcastically.

Her chilling glare could have formed icicles. “For what?”

Sol did a double take. “For saving you from disaster, of course. That devil sorrel didn’t look like he planned to slow down until his legs gave out or he launched you off his back. Whichever came first.”

“Which is the whole point of the exercise,” she insisted in a scathing tone.

“What exercise?” he scoffed caustically. “Catapulting off his back to see how many bones you can break at once?”

“No, I have to be able to hold on while Rooster runs hell-for-leather if I want to stake my claim in the run.”

“Lady, the only claim you’ll stake is a cemetery plot if you ride this animal.” Sol flashed her a stern glance. “You need to buy one of my horses. They are trained for riding, not green broke like this unruly stallion.”

She tilted her chin and scoffed at him. “How convenient that you just happen to have a string of mounts for sale. And you call me an opportunist? Ha! That’s a laugh.”

To his surprise, she became huffier by the second. She nearly stood on top of him, despite the fact that she was a head shorter and at least one hundred pounds lighter than he was. “I will have you know, Mr. Horse Trader, that I am not trolling for a husband in this sea of would-be settlers. I’m here to claim land for a ranch of my own, so I can raise horses and cattle. I don’t need a man lording over me and getting in my way. I do not need to be saved from the sire of my future horse herd … and you stay off me!” she shouted as she stabbed her forefinger into his chest.

Sol tried to pay attention to her lecture while she was yelling at him, he really did. Nevertheless, his betraying gaze zeroed in on her lush, tempting mouth. She had plump pink lips that he hungered to taste. The thought prompted him to lick his own lips in anticipation.

Apparently, he’d been too long without a woman, if this firebrand aroused him and sent his thoughts skittering off in the wrong direction. She was all sharp claws, biting teeth and prickly criticism, as spirited and contrary as her stallion. Not to mention wildly attractive—if a man could convince her to use that sassy mouth for something besides delivering scornful lectures.

When she lifted a questioning brow, Sol blinked and scrambled to find his place in the one-sided conversation. He finally gave up and said, “What?”

She cast him a withering glance. “Never mind. You men are all alike. You can’t get past outward appearances to pay attention to anything as inconsequential as intelligent conversation.”

She pivoted around to hobble toward her horse, which was trying to pick a fight with Outlaw. The two stallions laid back their ears, snorted and pawed the ground.

It reminded Sol of his confrontation with the blonde.

“I suppose I don’t need to know you by name.” She tossed the comment over her shoulder flippantly. “I can think of plenty to call you, even if you refuse to provide the one you were given at birth.”

Which was not the name he used now, he reminded himself. He had been born in a Cheyenne camp, not in white society.

Why did she want to know his name, anyway? So she could tattle to the El Reno city marshal that he had attacked her? Which he most certainly had not … but he was thinking about it now.

Before she could walk between the two stallions and get trampled, Sol let out a sharp whistle, startling Rooster and bringing Outlaw obediently to him.

“The name is Solomon Tremain,” he said as he grabbed Rooster’s trailing reins, then handed them to her. “And you are?”

She climbed slowly onto the horse and grimaced. Obviously, she had sustained some sort of injury during her fall and his subsequent collapse on top of her.

“I’m Josephine Malloy.”

He nodded in recognition. “You’re Button-Eye Malloy. I’ve heard your name mentioned in several tent communities hereabout. You’re the mender of shirts and the breaker of hearts, or so I’m told. I expect you’re doing a thriving business to earn extra money. The brunette I saw you with in town must be Patches Wilson.”

The blonde stared him down, making grand use of her elevated position on her demon horse. “At your service, Tremain,” she said loftily. “Is there anything I can sew shut for you? In that, I can be bought for a fair price … but for nothing else.”

He had to hand it to the minx, she gave as good as she got. He liked teasing her, just to watch those expressive eyes flash blue fire. He also liked the way her chin shot up in defiance. Not to mention the way she squared her shoulders, refusing to feel threatened, preparing herself for an oncoming challenge or debate. There was nothing docile or dull about Josephine Malloy.

“Maybe it’s best that you don’t accept any of the marriage proposals tossed at you,” he advised. “I’m guessing you’d be as difficult to live with as your contrary stallion.”

Josie studied the swarthy horse trader as he mounted the muscular buckskin, the coal-black mane and tail of which matched the color of Tremain’s thick, shiny hair. She had to admit there was something intriguing about the man. He moved with the controlled grace and agility of a powerful predator. She reluctantly noted how his dark breeches, shirt and leather vest clung to his powerful body, accentuating his muscular physique. She didn’t want to show the slightest interest in this man. Or any man, for that matter. She had more important things on her mind.

When Josie managed to drag her gaze off Tremain, she noticed his stallion behaved much better than Rooster did. “On second thought, I’ll trade you straight out. My stallion for yours,” she bartered impulsively.

He threw back his dark head and barked a laugh as he settled himself comfortably on his horse. His sea-green eyes, rimmed with thick black lashes, danced with amusement. Josie blinked in surprise when she saw the dimples creasing his bronzed cheeks. Tremain was actually quite handsome, in a rugged, earthy sort of way.

Not that she cared, of course. He could be God’s gift to women and she wouldn’t want him. She didn’t need a man to complicate her life right now—maybe ever. The idea of a husband ordering her about, as if it was his natural-born right, didn’t sit well with her. She wanted to avoid restrictive ties, so she could take complete control of her destiny and focus all her efforts on staking a claim for a homestead.

“Outlaw is worth a half-dozen horses like your cantankerous mount,” Tremain insisted as he reined toward the string of waiting mustangs on the hill. He cast her a pointed look. “And you are not supposed to be out here, not even to exercise that ill-mannered animal.”

“But you can be?” she challenged, as Rooster followed after Outlaw—probably looking to pick another fight, knowing him.

“I have a special trader’s license, Josephine,” Sol said, glancing at her over his broad shoulder. “You don’t. Since you are trespassing, I might decide to tattle to Commander Holbrook. He can lock you up with the other sneaky Sooners and you can watch the run from behind bars.”

“But you won’t if I what, Tremain?” she asked suspiciously. “If I offer to provide some sort of services to you?”

His rakish grin did strange things to her pulse, for reasons she couldn’t account for. More than a hundred men had tried to court her since she had set up camp beside the boundary line for the run. Yet this ruggedly attractive rascal appealed to her. Why? She couldn’t say. She wasn’t sure she even liked the man. Still, there was something about him that intrigued her—and that made her wary and defensive.

It likely stemmed from the fact that he had sprawled on top of her earlier, she mused. She had become fiercely aware that he was one hundred percent male. During their downhill tumble, Josie had found herself riding his muscular thigh, and her breasts had been mashed against his broad chest. It had been unnerving … and titillating. Oh, for heaven’s sake, don’t think about that!

She quickly turned her attention to the authoritative air that surrounded him like an invisible cloak. His demeanor reminded her of Captain Holbrook’s commanding manner, which seemed odd for a wandering horse trader.

Her thoughts trailed off and she shivered, becoming aware of the evening chill settling around her. She wished she’d worn her jacket. It would have provided warmth, not to mention extra padding during her fall and wild tumble. Even now, her hip throbbed and her wrist ached from being hyperextended.

“You should buy one of the other horses I have for sale,” he repeated belatedly. “Not Outlaw. He belongs to me.”

She was disappointed he hadn’t tossed out an inappropriate, off-color remark in response to her previous comment. Then she would feel justified in lashing out at him again. It would assure her that she had every reason to dislike him and would be well advised to maintain a cautious distance.

“No, thanks. I’m sticking with Rooster. He’ll get me where I want to go the day of the race.” She hoped.

“Or see you buried,” Sol mumbled as he leaned out to grab the lead rope on the other horses.

“Muriel said something to that effect, but I intend to prove you both wrong,” Josie insisted. She glanced curiously at him. “Are you going to make the land run?”

“Haven’t decided yet. I’m not one to stay in the same place for long. Born under a wandering star, you might say.”

Which meant he and Josie held opposing objectives in life. She dreamed of putting down roots and having a home of her own. She’d endured seven years of feeling unwanted, though she had stayed in a grand house where most women would delight in living. She had been overly anxious to escape that tormenting place. Nowadays, a sod house or crude dugout seemed like a welcoming palace to her.

“You can drop by my homestead after the run and see how well I’m managing without a man’s help or intrusion,” she invited. “Unlike you, Tremain, I want a place to call my own.”

He studied her for a long, contemplative moment. His penetrating green eyes bored into her, as if searching out hidden secrets.

“So … Miz Josephine, where do you hail from?” he asked as they rode toward the tent community that had become her temporary home.

“Iowa. My mother died when I was ten. Three years later, Papa married a wealthy, influential widow who could improve his social standing.” Josie wrinkled her nose in disgust. “Although Papa inherited property from my mother’s family, he had no interest whatsoever in ranching. Eventually he sold it for extra money, after his new wife pressured him into it. Needless to say, my brother and I were hugely disappointed.”