Wild Mustang

Grandfather rose and, in passing Shane’s chair, murmured, “Get along well, don’t they?”

Shane grunted, well aware now of the old man’s motives. Grandfather knew very well why Shane would never marry again. He also ought to have known that dangling Laura in front of him, like a carrot held out to entice a mule, was not going to work.

“What you need is a kick in the rear,” was Grandfather’s parting shot before exiting.

Despite himself, Shane carried to bed with him the image of the two heads—blond and black—bent over the sewing. He had to admit Laura really seemed to like his sister. As for Sage, she was obviously in the throes of heroine worship.

When he woke around three, he found himself weighing the pros and cons of Laura’s suggestion about—how had she put it?—a marriage of accommodation. He cast his mind over possible candidates among the women he knew, assessed them and, one by one, rejected them.

Cursing himself for even considering the idea, he turned over and tried to chase down sleep. But as fast as he reached for it, the faster it drew away.

Keep my little girl safe. He heard the echo of his mother’s words in his head. She’d known she was dying and hadn’t seemed frightened for herself, only for Sage. How easy it had seemed then to think he always would be able to protect his baby sister.

There must be a way. Unfortunately, the only idea he could think of that seemed likely to work had come from Laura, and that one was impossible. There might be more than one woman in the world he’d like to take to bed, but there wasn’t any he wanted to marry.

Marriage was a trap. A snare and a delusion. It brought grief and heartache and guilt. And in his mother’s case, disillusion and pain. He wanted no part of it.

Chapter Three

Laura was in good spirits as she and Shane rode out early in the cool of the morning. So far, there’d been no problem staying at the ranch. She welcomed the chance to make friends with Sage, although she’d never imagined she’d wind up teaching any girl to embroider.

It was a skill she hadn’t called up in years, but, as it turned out, she hadn’t forgotten. “Like riding a bicycle,” she said aloud.

Shane turned to look at her. “Bicycle?”

“I was thinking that we rarely forget skills we learned as children,” she told him.

“I was six when my father taught me how to whittle,” he said.

“I admire the mustang on your mantel. You’re really talented. I didn’t notice any other pieces, though.”

“Most of what I make goes to the shops to be sold. Keeps us eating.”

If the wild horse was any example, she thought his carvings ought to fetch top prices.

They rode in silence for a while, Laura enjoying the clean desert air and the sight of the snow-capped Sierra peaks in the distance. “What’s the altitude here?” she asked.

“Over four thousand feet.” His glance was assessing. “Tends to bother people coming from near sea level.”

“So if I sleep in, that’s why?” she asked. Actually she’d had trouble forcing herself out of bed this morning. Sheer determination had fueled her I’ll-show-him attitude or she’d still be asleep.

He half-smiled. “Somehow, I don’t think you will.”

After another silence, he pointed to some sleek, streamlined clouds drifting over the Sierra peaks. “Lenticulars. Some weather heading our way. You can feel the dampness in the air.”

“You’re the local weather expert—I’ll take your word for it.”

“Smell the air.”

It was an order, so she did. His raised eyebrows told her that he expected a comment.

“The scent of sage is maybe a bit stronger than usual.”

He nodded. “Damp air.”

She wondered if she’d passed some kind of test. Not that she cared. No, wait, that wasn’t true. She did want to impress upon him that she wasn’t a person to be given the slowest, safest mare in the corral. She was a professional who knew what she was doing, and sooner or later he’d be forced to recognize it.

A plume of dust caught her eye. Before she could point it out, he said, “We’ll head for those cottonwoods to the right. They run along a stream, and chances are the herd’s coming to the water. If we get there first and stay still, we won’t spook ’em.”

He was right. As they waited under the branches covered with the bright green leaves of early June, the mustangs they’d spotted gathered upstream—five of them. To her disappointment, the calico pinto mare wasn’t among them. In fact—weren’t they all stallions?

“Is that what they call a bachelor herd?” she asked in a low tone, admiring a white horse a bit smaller than the others.

“Right. All young males who haven’t collected a harem yet.”

As they watched the mustangs drink, then wheel and trot off, Laura was once again awed by their fluid grace. She’d never imagined she’d be so moved by the sight of wild horses.

“Might as well dismount and take a break,” Shane said.

Somewhat surprised, since they hadn’t been riding long, she agreed. Once off the mare, she wandered down to the stream—narrow, but containing a respectable amount of water. From what her brother had told her about Nevada, she figured this was snow-melt and that, later in the summer, the creek might run dry.

Dipping her fingers in the cold water confirmed her guess. Rejoining Shane near the trunk of a good-sized tree, she turned up her face for a moment to feel the warmth of the sun filtering through the leafy branches. What a peaceful scene. She’d have relaxed completely if only she hadn’t been so aware of the man standing no more that two feet away.

“I’ve been doing some thinking,” he said, not looking at her.

She waited. When he didn’t go on, she asked, “About what?”

“About what you said.”

She’d said a lot of things. “You’ll have to be specific.”

Shane flicked her a glance. This was going to be even harder than he’d thought. He sure as hell didn’t want to say what must be said or do what must be done. The trouble was, he couldn’t figure any other way.

When he’d roused in the grayness of pre-dawn, he’d seen the solution there before him, like jigsaw puzzle pieces fitted together, each piece a separate entity, but together creating a whole. Like a puzzle, it could be taken apart again, which was the only reason he’d considered it.

“It’s about my sister,” he said. “I didn’t tell you yesterday, but Judge Rankin warned me I ought to get married or else he’d have trouble letting me keep Sage. Then you talked about what you called a marriage of accommodation.”

She smiled at him. “Yes, I did. I really do think that’s your best choice at this point, since you don’t seem to have any woman in mind you really want to marry.”

“So you agree.”

He caught her nod from the corner of his eye. Good. This might turn out to be simpler than he’d figured. Still it was hard to get the words out.

“Grandfather seconds my choice,” he temporized. “In fact, it was his choice first.”

“All the better.”

Go for it, man, he told himself. Stop hedging. Facing her directly, he said, “Grandfather thinks you’re the perfect person for the judge to accept, and I’ve decided he’s right. Since I don’t want to get married and neither do you, we are, as the ads say, made for each other—at least as far as this situation goes.” He cut off his nervous babbling. Damn, but he was on edge.