The Wrong Cowboy

She nodded.

He picked up a stick and used it to poke at the snake before hooking it. Dead, it hung limply over the stick, and a tiny quiver inched up his spine as he pulled it clear of the foliage. It was a good-size rattler. Pushing four feet or more.

“I thought you said you shot a rabbit,” Terrance said. “That’s not a rabbit, it’s a snake.”

“It’s a rattlesnake,” Stafford explained. “They’re called rattlers because of the sound they make.”

The children oohed and aahed but it was the shuddering “Oh,” coming from behind him that had him twisting around. Marie’s face had about as much color as a cloud, and she appeared to be drooping before his eyes.

Stafford dropped the snake and caught her elbow. She slouched, but didn’t go all the way down. “Here,” he said, “sit down.”

She half nodded and half shook her head at the same time. “No, I’m all right. I don’t need to sit down.” The hold she had on his arm tightened. “Just give me a second to catch my breath.”

An odd sensation ticked inside him. She had guts, he had to give her that. Plenty of women, men, too, might have fainted dead away to see the size of the snake that had almost sunk its fangs into her backside.

“She didn’t get bit, did she?” Jackson asked, squeezing between the bush and the children to pick up the stick holding the snake.

Stafford waited for her to answer. Rattlers usually only bit once, because as soon as they sank their fangs in they held on and started pumping venom.

“No,” she said weakly. “I wasn’t bitten.”

“Good thing,” Jackson answered. “A rattler’s bite can be deadly.”

Her hold increased and Stafford experienced a bout of frustration at the Swede for being so insensitive. Not that he’d been overly sensitive to her during the trip, but that was different. At least, in his mind it was.

“Gotta lance open the wound,” the Swede went on. “Bleed out the poison as soon as possible and the person still might not make it.”

For a split second Stafford’s mind saw her backside again, and he cringed inwardly at how much damage that snake could have done.

“Whatcha gonna do with that?” Terrance asked, nodding toward the snake.

“Well, we could have snake stew for supper,” Jackson answered.

Marie made a quiet wheezing sound as she drew in air. She also straightened her stance and didn’t lean so hard against him. Stafford watched her closely as she shook her head. It was almost as if he could see her gumption returning.

“We will not be eating that,” she said sternly. “Not in a stew or any other way you might consider preparing it.”

Jackson nodded. “Most folks don’t take to eating them very well. I’ll get rid of it.” The man laid the snake on the ground and pulled a knife from his boot. “Just gonna cut off the rattles.”

“Why?” Terrance asked.

“’Cause that’s what you do,” Jackson said. “Look here.” He waved for the children to step closer. “Each one of these buttons, that’s what they’re called on his tail, was formed when it shed its skin. By counting the buttons, you can guess how old the snake might be.”

The children had gathered close, even the girls, and Stafford took a couple of steps backward, taking Marie with him. “You doing all right now?”

Her gumption may have returned, but there was something else about her that caught him off guard. She looked all soft and feminine, especially her big doe eyes.

“Yes, thank you,” she said softly.

“Thank your little dog, there,” he said roughly, not too willing to accept her gratitude. “If she hadn’t started barking, you may have gotten bit.”

Her cheeks turned bright pink. “I threw a pebble at her, trying to hush her up.”

“That couldn’t have been what riled up the snake,” he said, setting her arm loose and stepping away. “They usually skedaddle when it comes to things bigger than them.”

Another shudder of sorts was creeping its way up his spine. He wasn’t entirely sure, but he sensed it had something to do with standing this close to Marie, touching her, whispering. Those were not things he did.

“Well, thank you, and Polly, for coming to my rescue,” she said.

“There was no rescuing involved,” he clarified.

She was wringing her hands and cringing slightly, her face still flushed. He knew why a moment later.

“Mr. Burleson, about...about the position—”

Now that he could laugh at. “No one will ever know I saw your bare bottom, Marie.”

The exact look of mortification he’d seen on her face earlier reappeared. Too bad he hadn’t bet on the cause of it—he’d have won. At that moment, he chose to take it one step further. “That is, if you call me Stafford. I’d say the formality of Mr. Burleson would just be a waste now. Considering what I saw and all.”

Her hiss, along with the snap in those brown eyes told him she was back one hundred percent, and that was a good thing. So much so, he laughed, tipped his hat, and with a wink, turned around. “We’re wasting daylight,” he shouted, once again feeling a genuine skip in his step.

She caught up with him before he made it to the team. “Mr. Burleson—”

One look had her pinching her lips together.

“Stafford.”

He nodded. It really didn’t mean that much, other than that he’d won, and he liked being a winner.

Some of the steam left her as she bowed her head slightly. “I appreciate your discretion,” she huffed and then turned. “Children!”

He laughed, not caring that she heard and cast a very unfavorable look his way.

It didn’t take long before they were loaded up and heading west again. Marie was on the seat beside him again today, and that played a bit of havoc with Stafford’s insides. It hadn’t yesterday and there was no reason for it to this morning, but it did, and try as he might, ignoring it was impossible. Just as it was impossible to ignore how, every so often, his mind flashed back to the image of the lily-white flesh she was now sitting on. That was bound to affect a man. Any man.

“Mr. Burleson?”

“Yes, Samuel?” he answered, thankful he now knew the children’s names. The younger two, Charles and Weston, looked exactly alike and it wasn’t until they spoke that he knew who was who. Weston had the lisp, Charlie didn’t. Weston talked more than Charlie did, too. Probably because Charlie was always chewing on the collar of his shirt. It was pretty amazing how much he’d discovered about these kids in such a short time.

“You’re really a cowboy aren’t you?” Samuel asked.

“Well, I expect I am,” Stafford answered. He hadn’t thought of it much, but had to admit he liked who he was, now. A cowboy was as fitting a word as any, and it beat the heck out of being a cotton farmer. Not that he’d ever have been one of those. Sterling had inherited his father’s farm. That’s how it was with the oldest. The second son had to forge out on his own, make his own way in life. Which fit him just fine.

“Can I call you Stafford?” Samuel asked. “It sounds a lot more like a cowboy than Mr. Burleson, don’t you think?”

Marie opened her mouth, but he shook his head and grinned. Giving the boy a nod, he agreed. “Sure, you can call me Stafford.”

“Are there a lot of rattlers in these parts, Stafford?” the child then asked.