She knew she wouldn’t. He might not be threatening at the moment, just pigheaded stubborn, but he still made her extremely nervous. She was too aware of him in every way, of his raw masculinity and the violence he was capable of. She simply had no experience in dealing with someone like him, but she’d better learn real quick, because it looked like she wasn’t getting rid of him any time soon.
“All right,” she said, slightly bitter, slightly resigned. “But first let me assure you that what trouble I’m in is my own fault. I’m a meddler, you see. I’m the first to admit it. It’s something I can’t seem to help doing. And I should warn you that if you stick around, I’ll probably try meddling in your life, too.”
“So I’ve been warned,” he replied.
He wasn’t impressed, though, she noted. He was probably confident that he was too intimidating for her to try any such thing with him. Come to think of it, that might be so.
“At any rate,” she continued, “what I tried to do this time was end a feud that’s been going on down here for twenty-five years. It’s between two families, the MacKauleys and the Catlins. Actually, it’s not just the families. Whoever works for them takes sides, too. Brawls break out every once in a while between the hands when they meet up in town. If their two herds mix—well, that could lead to shooting before they get unmixed. My papa has become sort of a buffer these past ten years, at least on the range, since he settled right in the middle of their two properties. So the feud is pretty much past the violent stage, but that doesn’t mean there isn’t a lot of hate built up on both sides.”
“I know all about feuds, Miss Stuart. I’ve been in the middle of several myself.”
She knew that, at least she’d heard about one that he’d been hired to participate in, but she wasn’t going to comment on that. “These folks, they aren’t hardheaded about their feud. They don’t insist outsiders take sides. So I was friendly with both families, in particular with Jenny Catlin, who’s near my age—and Morgan MacKauley.”
“That ornery young cuss you were talking to? You call that friendly?”
She flushed at his sneering tone. “He was friendly enough before I got his whole family set against me.”
“And how’d you manage that?”
“I played matchmaker. I figured the simplest way to end the feud was to have the two families joined by marriage. It was a good idea. Don’t you think so?”
“If the married couple didn’t end up killing each other, I suppose it could’ve worked. Is that what happened? They killed each other?”
Cassie scowled at his blasé tone. “There was no killing. But Jenny and Clayton married with my help, each thinking the other was in love with them. I sort of convinced them of that. Only they found out on their wedding night that neither had reached the loving point yet. Clayton dumped his bride back on her family, both families were outraged, and I got blamed for the whole mess, and rightly so, since those two, the youngest of both families, would never have done anything about their mutual attraction if I hadn’t noticed it and meddled.”
“So you’ve got half the folks around here hating your guts. Is that all?”
Her mouth dropped open. “All? That’s enough for me, thank you,” she said indignantly. “I’m not used to being hated. And that’s not all. I’ve been asked—well, told, actually, to get out of Texas by both families. But the MacKauleys also gave me a date that I’d better be gone by, or else they’ll burn down the Double C. Now, they were generous, really, when you consider this was six weeks ago. They were giving me plenty of time, time enough for my papa to return. Only Papa got delayed with an injury. My time is up this Saturday and the foreman’s been chased off by the Catlins, so I can’t leave even if I wanted to, and neither Dorothy Catlin nor R. J. MacKauley, the two heads of the families, will speak to me, so I can’t even apologize or grovel for forgiveness. So you tell me, mister, how are you going to help? I needed Mr. Pickens’s talent for talking folks around to being reasonable. From what I hear, you don’t talk much at all.”
“From what you hear? That’s not the first time you’ve implied you know me, when we’ve never met to my recollection. Or have we?”
It wasn’t very flattering that he would suppose he would have forgotten her if they had met. But Cassie didn’t take offense. She was well aware that she was no beauty to turn men’s heads. Not that she’d been completely ignored since she’d reached a marriageable age. Of course, the fact that the Lazy S was a very large ranch and the Stuarts had other wealth besides had a lot to do with it. But of the two men who’d shown some slight interest, each had asked outright if she’d be willing to get rid of Marabelle, and their interest had ended when told she wouldn’t.
She said to Angel now, “We haven’t met, but I do know all about you, what you are, what you do. I grew up on tales of your exploits.”
He gave her a doubtful look. “My name’s recognized in the North, lady, but only in a few places down here.”
“Yes, but I’m only visiting Texas,” she explained. “My home is in Wyoming.”
He stared at her hard for a moment, then swore. “Son of a—you’re one of them eccentric Stuarts from the Lazy S out of Cheyenne, aren’t you? The ones that got an el-e-phant grazing out on the range with their cattle. Hell and I should have known.”
He said the last with such disgust, she blushed furiously. “You and hell don’t know a damn thing,” she said in defense of her family. “So my grandpa likes to give unusual gifts. He’s a world traveler, who goes to many never-heard-of-before places. And he just likes to share a little of his experiences with his family in a tangible way. I don’t see any harm in that.”
“No harm? I heard that el-e-phant knocked half your barn down once.”
Her blush got brighter. “The elephant belongs to my mama. He stays out on the range, but every once in a while he comes home—so he’s a little clumsy. No real harm gets done, and my mama is very fond of him.”
“Your mama—”
He bit off what he was going to say, but she could just imagine. Around Cheyenne, it was no secret that Catherine Stuart had lived in the same house with her husband for ten years without saying one word to him—except through third parties. A lot of folks thought that was plain weird. And their collection of unusual animals only added to that opinion.
“So that’s how you got that black panther? A gift from your grandfather?”
She could tell he was really having trouble accepting the notion. He probably thought her grandpa was a little bit crazy—or a lot. But then, his was a reaction she was used to. And she was used to explaining.
“Not exactly. Grandpa had intended to keep Marabelle for himself. He found her the day he was leaving Africa. The natives had killed her mother, were going to kill her, too, but Grandpa intervened and brought her on his ship. But he found out after he sailed that he and Marabelle just weren’t compatible. She didn’t take to sailing at all, was sick the whole trip home, and he wasn’t ready to give up sailing himself. And every time he got near her he started sneezing for some reason.
“When he reached the ranch, she was half dead, poor thing, down to skin and bones from having such a hard time keeping food down on the ship. He’d already decided to send her back east to a zoo, but he gave her to me to fatten up first. I’m afraid I got attached to her real quick, as small and adorable as she was then. It took me a while to talk him into letting me keep her, but then, he’s a softy where I’m concerned. And I’ve never regretted keeping her.” Even if Marabelle did scare off what few possible beaux Cassie might have had.
“But I believe we have digressed, haven’t we?” she continued in a sterner tone. “I asked you what possible help a gunfighter could be in my present situation. Care to answer that now?”
He gave her a narrow look for putting him on the spot. “Didn’t you say them MacKauleys were a hotheaded bunch?”
“Yes, but—”
“If you don’t want me talking to them for you, which I’d be hap
py to do—”
“No!”
“Then I’ll just be here to protect you if it proves necessary, until they decide to let you live here in peace, or you leave. Guess I’ll have to stick pretty close to your boot heels after all.”
He didn’t seem too happy about that. Cassie was appalled herself.
Chapter 6
He’d be there to protect her. It sounded nice, it sounded safe—if it were anyone but the Angel of Death who’d said it. The trouble was, Cassie didn’t trust him just to protect her. He would want to finish his favor for Mr. Pickens as soon as possible. He wouldn’t want to merely sit around and let things take their natural course. But she didn’t even want to think about what he might do if he got it into his head that he could do something to hurry things along.
On the way back to the ranch she’d stressed again that there was to be no killing. She wasn’t sure he’d been listening. And even if he had been, she doubted he’d pay her much mind. She hadn’t hired him, after all, so he wouldn’t feel obliged to obey her orders.
It was a nerve-racking ride. Cassie had hoped Angel would leave the carriage and ride his horse back to the ranch, but he’d made no move to do that when they’d finished their talk. And he was certainly no conversationalist. If she didn’t speak first, he said nothing at all, and sometimes even if she did say something, he made no reply.
And his proximity had her fidgeting and paying little attention to the road. His black-clad legs were stretched out next to her and kept drawing her eye. His boots were well made and clearly well cared for, the spurs shining as if they never touched dirt. The boots and his bandana were black like the rest of his attire; everything was black except for his gun, his spurs, and that yellow slicker that let you see him coming from a long way off.
There was nothing normal about his attire. He dressed to draw attention to himself. She wondered why, but she wasn’t up to asking him any personal questions. Unfortunately, she’d have ample time to do so later if she got up the nerve, since he was staying—right on her boot heels. God, she hoped he hadn’t meant that literally.
Angel found himself glancing at Cassandra Stuart more than once during that ride. His eyes kept coming back to her face, and a profile that was prettier than he’d first thought her to be. It showed off a pert little nose, the soft angle of her cheekbones, a chin that was sweetly rounded, and the fullness of those lush lips. Those lips were downright beautiful, and infinitely kissable. He’d caught himself staring at them when she’d turned to him earlier, and wondering what they’d taste like—which was a thought that confounded him because he wasn’t the least bit attracted to the irritating woman.
It wasn’t hard to tell that he made her nervous, but that was nothing unusual. Angel made most women nervous, ladies in particular. Her stiff little back, the tenseness in her neck and shoulders, the whites of her knuckles when she gripped the reins too tight, all spoke quite eloquently. She’d even picked up her rifle from the floor and set it between them on the seat. That had so amused him he’d almost laughed outright. He hadn’t, though, and he’d had no intention of putting her at ease. It usually was a waste of time to try, but in her case, he simply hadn’t felt like it.
Now that he knew who she was, he looked at her differently, though not in any better light after adding lying to him to his list of what he disliked about her. But she was from Cheyenne, and that made a difference, made him see her in a more personal way, though he wished it didn’t.
But then, Cheyenne was the closest he came to calling a place home, because he’d spent the most time there since leaving the mountains when he was fifteen—or thereabouts. He wasn’t sure how old he was now, somewhere around twenty-six. Didn’t know when he was born, or where. Didn’t know who his folks were, or how to find them if they were still alive. Old Bear had stolen him out of St. Louis, but he remembered riding a train to get there, so St. Louis wasn’t his real home. He’d gone back there once, but no one remembered a little boy disappearing from their town all those years ago. And searching for his past hadn’t held much interest for a boy who had spent his childhood the virtual prisoner of a crazy old mountain man. He’d been too busy learning all the things denied him for nine years—and adjusting to living among people again.
He didn’t like feeling as if he knew Cassandra Stuart, but the fact remained that she was one of those crazy Stuarts—one of those rich, crazy Stuarts—and he’d even met her mother. He’d gone to her ranch once with Jessie Summers when he’d worked for the Rocky Valley spread, during which short time he’d tried ranching— and decided he wasn’t cut out for it. But he remembered that day with crystal clarity for a number of reasons.
It was the first and only time he’d met Catherine Stuart, and from what he’d heard about her, she wasn’t what he’d expected. She was a handsome woman, a woman of strong character and forthright manner, who looked you right in the eye to take your measure just like a man would. There was nothing soft or shy about her, nothing ladylike, either, at least not that day, since they’d caught her coming in off the range wearing pants and chaps as well as a gun—he could see now where Miss Stuart got the nerve to wear one. Must run in the family.
He’d never met the husband, Charles Stuart. He’d left Wyoming before Angel had ever heard of the crazy Stuarts. But there wasn’t a soul who knew the story of their family feud, or thought they did, who blamed him for leaving his wife and daughter.
Some said Catherine had caught him in bed with another woman, but ten years was too long to make a man suffer for one indiscretion. Others said he’d beaten her once and she’d never forgiven him for it. And there was one other version, that she’d had such a hard time giving birth to their only child that she’d never let him back into her bed.
Whatever the reason for ten years of silence, she’d taken over the running of the Lazy S after her husband left, and she ran the large ranch with an iron hand. Men who worked for her jumped when she said jump. Angel could see why after meeting her. There was definitely something intimidating about that woman.
But what made that morning so memorable for Angel were the two flame-red parrots that perched on the railing of the front porch—of a house identical to the one he’d seen this morning, now that he thought of it. The parrots were the most unusual, comical things he’d ever seen. They moved back and forth along the railing in such symmetry, it was like there was only one bird with a mirror following along behind it. And the foul language that they spewed—Jessie had laughed uproariously. Catherine Stuart hadn’t batted an eye. Angel had blushed three kinds of red before the two women, mostly at being so surprised, since he hadn’t known such birds existed, much less that they could talk.
But that was just the first reason that day was still so clear in his mind. The other was he’d nearly died that afternoon when he’d come across the rustlers who’d been whittling away at the Rocky Valley’s herd for several weeks. He’d taken a bullet in his side and been about to get another at point-blank range right between the eyes when Jessie’s half brother, Colt, had shown up. It had been damn close, mere seconds to his last breath. He’d even seen the trigger starting to move.
That had been his second debt, owed to Colt Thunder, the one he’d paid back recently that had delayed him getting to Texas. Colt was also about the only man Angel could call a true friend. There were men who called him friend, men who wanted to share in the glory of his reputation. Angel only tolerated them to a point. With Colt it was different. They were both loners, both fast guns, both faced with the strangeness of how folks saw them, though for different reasons. Colt had called them kindred spirits. Angel didn’t disagree.
And Cassandra Stuart and her mother were Colt’s neighbors. Colt probably even knew them both real well. It was another reason why he was forced to look at the woman differently, now that he knew. She was a friend of a friend. Damn, he would have preferred not knowing.
Chapter 7
Cassie was so eager to depart the gunfighter’s company, she
didn’t bother to take the carriage around to the barn as she usually did when returning from town, but stopped it in front of the house. Emanuel, Maria’s son, would come and get it anyway, no matter where she left it, so she didn’t spare a thought for the tired carriage horse. She just wanted to get out of his sight the quickest way possible.
It had ended up being the longest ride of her life in one of the shortest distances. It had been bad enough that Angel’s mere presence disturbed her, but she’d also sensed him staring at her a number of times, and that had been even worse, not knowing what he was thinking, not knowing why he was staring, not knowing what a man like him might do from one minute to the next.
She knew, with what intelligence she possessed, that she was being ridiculous to let him shred her nerves to pieces. He was there to help her, not hurt her. But her emotions weren’t interested in being logical or realistic.
She jumped out of her side of the carriage the second it stopped, and was almost running around it to reach the porch. But Angel did the same, and he was there to block her from the steps.
For the second time that day, she just barely managed to keep from colliding with a man, and this time only because his voice startled her into halting. “What the hell is your hurry, lady?”
Cassie was dismayed to see that her—unwarranted—behavior had annoyed him. And she had no answer for him that wouldn’t make it worse. She stepped back hesitantly, enough that she could finally see he was holding her rifle.
As soon as her eyes dropped to it, he thrust it at her. “Forgot this, didn’t you?”
That was said in such a sneering tone, she knew that he knew she’d felt she needed it to defend herself against him. Her blush came quickly. God, had she ever made such a fool of herself before?