The Cattleman Meets His Match

“Hey, mister.” The drunken man smacked his palms against the sill. “Stop them girls. They stole my money.”

Of course. John mentally slapped his forehead. He should have known. He’d nearly been taken by a similar bunch in Buffalo Gap. Hastily stuffing his hands into his pockets, he breathed a sigh of relief. His fingers closed around the cool metal of his money clip. At least they’d rewarded his assistance by leaving him with the contents of his pockets intact.

Desperate children forced into desperate measures.

But what punishment did they deserve? John clenched his jaw. It wasn’t for him to decide.

A flash of yellow caught his attention. Half immersed in the mire, a rag doll lay forgotten. He pinched its yellow yarn braid between two fingers and held it aloft in the moonlight.

Above him, the shouting man worked his way down the rope. The sheets held firm and a grudging admiration for Miss O’Mara filtered through John’s annoyance. She tied knots like a trail boss.

“Well, mister,” the man demanded, his breath a fog of alcohol fumes. “Where’d them little thieves go?”

What now? If his brothers were here, they’d shove John aside like a pesky obstacle. They’d take charge and assume he didn’t have anything to offer. Like a herd of stampeding cattle, they’d wrestle all of the decisions—right or wrong—out of his hands. When his brothers were around, he never had to bother with taking responsibility.

John squinted into the darkened alley.

The inebriated man shoved him. “You deaf? I asked you a question.”

John clenched his jaw. The sooner he put Miss O’Mara out of his thoughts, the sooner he could continue his journey. Heaven knew he hadn’t even proved himself worthy of caring for a herd of cattle. A motley group of pickpocket orphans and a beautiful woman with fiery red hair were problems well beyond his limited resources.

Miss O’Mara and her charges were knee-deep in calamity and sinking fast. Moira required someone with the time, focus and connections to unravel her difficulties. Someone with the resources to steer her charges toward a respectable path. A hero. She’d gotten him instead. Maybe she’d have better luck down the road.

The drunken man took off in the direction Miss O’Mara and her charges had escaped. John snatched the man’s arm and pointed the opposite way. “I’d check down there.”

* * *

Moira heard the cowboy’s betrayal and her heart lodged in her throat. She tugged on Hazel’s arm and quickened her pace. With each pounding step her lungs burned and her vision blurred. What did speed matter when they were running blind? They’d be caught again for certain.

A hand tugged on her sleeve and tears of defeat sprang in her eyes. She yanked away. She wasn’t giving up. Not yet. The fingers kept a brutal grip.

“Miss O’Mara,” the cowboy spoke near her ear. “Let me carry Hazel. We’ll make better time.”

“No. You betrayed us.”

Moira stumbled and the cowboy steadied her with a hand cupping her elbow.

“I didn’t. Look around if you don’t believe me.”

At his calm reassurance, she slowed and glanced behind them. The alley was empty. No one pursued them.

While her exhausted brain grappled with the realization, the cowboy knelt. With childish faith, Hazel clambered onto his back. The little girl wrapped her legs around his waist and buried her face in his neck, effectively forcing Moira to follow. They ran another two blocks, her hand clasped in his solid grasp, before he halted.

The cowboy jerked his head toward a closed door. “In there.”

Frightened and weak with hunger, Moira instinctively reacted to the innate authority in his tone. She tore open the door and guided the others inside.

The pungent aroma of animals assailed her senses. Her eyes gradually adjusted to the dim light and she noted Dutch doors lining either side of a cavernous center corridor. The cowboy had led them into the livery.

Horses stamped and snorted at the disturbance. The girls whispered together and Moira quickly shushed them. Their footsteps sounded like a stampede and their raspy, labored breathing chafed her taut nerves. She crept across the hay-strewn floor behind the cowboy, her index finger pressed against her lips for silence.

The cowboy gently lowered Hazel and propped an empty wooden saddle rack before the exit. Walking the aisle, he peered into each stall in turn, pausing before the third. He swung his arm in an arc, motioning them forward.

While the girls scurried inside the empty stall and huddled in the far corner, Moira bent and clutched the stitch in her side. In an effort to calm her rapid breathing, she dragged a deep breath into her tight lungs. The stall wasn’t much of a hiding place, but at least they weren’t out in the open anymore.

The cowboy returned a moment later with an enormous hay bale and tossed it onto the ground. He came back twice more in quick succession. Understanding his intent, Moira yanked on the bale wire, grimacing as it dug into her palms. Each bundle must weigh a hundred pounds, yet the cowboy showed no signs of strain.

He returned again with a stack of burlap feed sacks draped over his arm. “Cover yourselves with these and don’t make a sound. If he searches the building, don’t move, don’t talk, don’t even breathe.”

“Wait,” Moira called in a soft voice. “Why are you doing this?”

He hesitated and she sensed a war raging within him.

During their escape from the brothel, she’d noted his lean, muscular build and caught a glimpse of his square jaw. In the milky light of the stable, she made out the dark hair curling from beneath his hat and the raspy-looking whiskers darkening his jaw. He had an aristocratic face with deep-set eyes, a patrician nose, and lips that qualified as works of art.

He was, without a doubt, the most handsome man she’d ever laid eyes on. If only she had her sketch pad. He’d make a superb subject. Like a hero in a penny awful rescuing the damsel in distress, he had the sort of face that inspired romantic dreams.

Moira mentally shook the wayward thoughts from her head. Dreaming of a happily ever after was like building a house on a shifting sandbar. She’d seen too many people caught by the enticing trap, starting with her own mother. Over the years she’d guarded her heart well, and she wasn’t about to weaken her resolve for a chiseled jaw.

A muscle worked in John’s cheek. “Keep your head down. I may have to cause a distraction. Whatever you hear, stay out of sight unless I tell you to run.”

His voice was rough and uneven and the look in his eyes did nothing to reassure her. Moira had effectively trapped them in a corner.

She swallowed around the lump in her throat. She’d entrusted their lives to a stranger, albeit a handsome stranger. “What’s your name?”

“John. John Elder.”

Oddly comforted by the harmless name, she nodded. At least he hadn’t replied with something like Deadly Dan or Killer Miller.

Searching for an innocuous rejoinder, she blurted, “I’m Moira.”

He lifted the corner of his mouth in a half grin that sent her heart tripping. “Nice to meet you, Miss O’Mara.”

Her cheeks burned beneath his reference to her earlier insistence on his use of her formal name. She might have been a touch rude, but there weren’t exactly rules of etiquette for a brothel escape.

She cleared her throat. “You never answered my question. Why are you helping us?”

He stared into the distance. “Because it suits me for now.”

“What happens when it doesn’t suit you?”

“I guess we’ll find out when that happens.”

Her stomach dipped. For a moment she’d thought he was different. That he was actually helping them out of the kindness of his heart, out of Christian charity. Turned out he was like everyone else. He obviously had an ulterior motive. Maybe they were an amusement, maybe he was bored, maybe he’d flipped an imaginary coin and their predicament had come up tails. His motivation didn’t really matter.

Whatever the reason, he’d cease helping once they ceased serving whatever purpose he’d assigned them. People only cared when they needed something.

With a last appeal for silence, John stepped into the corridor and slid the door closed behind him.