The Cattleman Meets His Match

John glanced behind him at the quiet tent. One thing was for certain, he sure hoped Miss O’Mara unraveled knots as well as she tied them.

Chapter Four (#ulink_edd65b7d-ad40-5b98-bfbd-19f37e0e1d7b)

Moira stumbled into the early morning light and held the tent flap aside for the other girls. She stretched and yawned, then pressed her hands into the small of her back and arched.

Tony rubbed her eyes, blinked and blinked again.

Following her gaze, Moira bolted upright. The kidnapper and another man stood before them.

“Well, well, well. If it isn’t the orphan bunch,” the kidnapper said with a smirk.

“Stay away from us or I’ll fetch the sheriff,” Moira said.

The second man rubbed the back of his neck. “That would be me.”

Nausea rose in the back of her throat. Both men wore stars on their lapels. Though one was tarnished and dull; the other twinkled in the morning sunlight.

“Some of you have met already,” the second man continued. “Perhaps more formal introductions are in order. My name is Sheriff Taylor. This is my deputy, Wendell Ervin.”

Moira glared at the deputy sheriff. One shirttail hung loose from his sagging, brown trousers while greasy stains from a long-forgotten meal interrupted the black-and-gray satin stripes lining his vest like jailhouse bars. He’d removed his hat revealing a crown of thinning, sandy-colored hair pressed into place by layers of dirt and grime. A goose-egg bruise stood out between his shaggy eyebrows and purple half moons flared from the inside corners of his eyes.

He leered at her, showing a yellowed nightmare of a gap-toothed smile. Suppressing a delicate shudder, Moira leaned away. His close proximity revealed the bloodshot whites of his faded blue eyes. He pointed a crooked finger at her. “You’ll be spending the rest of your life in jail.”

She might have felt a modicum of satisfaction from his self-inflicted injury if she wasn’t terrified of his threat. Moira figured the situation could only degrade from there.

While the deputy swaggered and postulated, it was clear he wasn’t in charge. The man who’d introduced himself as the sheriff managed to overshadow his deputy with nothing more than a dismissive glare. Unlike Wendell, there wasn’t a speck of dirt marring the sheriff’s impeccable black suit. A crisp white shirt with a starched collar glowed between the dark folds of his lapels and his silver star sparkled.

Moira had a sudden absurd image of the sheriff blowing a hot breath against the metal and polishing the tin against his tidy black sleeve before riding into camp.

Her four charges stomped and huffed, rubbing their hands against chill shoulders. Despite the deputy’s blustering threat, their expressions were dull and uncomprehending. The girls blinked and yawned, wrinkled and blurry-eyed from sleep.

The sheriff smoothed his neat, dark coat into place and focused his attention on John. “Your name?”

“John Elder,” the cowboy replied, his voice a low growl.

He kept his face averted from Moira. Come to think of it, John hadn’t met her eyes once this morning. As though sensing her perusal, he turned, revealing his stark profile and the hard set of his jaw. There was nothing reassuring about his demeanor and her chest throbbed with something weighty and ragged.