The Horseman

Chapter Five

Dillon couldn’t believe it. Was he hearing the man right? Or imagining it? Men didn’t sell their daughters.

Not good men, he amended. It hadn’t been the first time he’d seen such a thing. From penniless farmers to gamblers desperate to stay in a poker game, he’d seen it. “Are you really that low of a bastard?”

“At least I’m not a worthless drifter. Take her and go.” Willman gathered up what remained of his dignity, shoved the string of gold and diamonds into the pocket of his fine black-striped house robe and disappeared up the stairs.

I despise that man. Dillon jammed his brim low, pivoted to face the door and caught the faint shadow of her face through the dark kitchen. He’d forgotten she was there, that she’d heard everything.

He stopped, torn. Did he go to her? And if he did, did he reassure her? Or offer the one thing he knew she wanted, the chance to escape this house?

And if he did, why would she want the likes of him? As soon as she was well, he had no doubt there’d be men knocking at the door. Gussied up in their Sunday best, with their hair slicked back and their manners in place for the chance to court lovely Katelyn.

He heard a whisper of fabric, the hush of a footstep, and she was gone. Somewhere in the back of the house a floorboard groaned beneath her weight. She was going pretty fast. Guess that’s your answer, Hennessey. She doesn’t want the likes of you.

Fine. He’d wait until morning to settle the matter. He wasn’t about to treat a woman like goods to be bartered. Except it sure would be something to have a wife.

Then you’d have to talk to her. Kiss her. Figure out what to say at the supper table. He may as well try to jump to the moon. His few attempts at conversation with Katelyn had to make her think he was a bumbling fool.

And now, the sort of man who would buy her.

It just went to prove his philosophy in life. The problem wasn’t with the horses but with the owners. Every single dad-blame time. The longer he was at this, the crazier it seemed folks were.

Maybe it was time to settle down. He’d been thinking of it hard on and off over the past year. Missing the land he owned. Missing a sense of permanence.

Reason he traveled was because he had no one to anchor him. No woman of his own. A house was mighty lonely day and night without end, to a bachelor too shy of women to court one.

He wouldn’t have to court Katelyn, he reasoned. She’d be already his.

Don’t even consider it. Buying a wife. What sort of a man did such a thing?

What would she think of that?

Remembering the ghostly shadow of her face in the kitchen, how she’d seemed so withdrawn, pulled in on herself. It was a purely protective stance, he knew. A deep wounding.

No, she wasn’t about to trust another man so easily. And a man who worked with his hands for a living? It was crazy thinking, that’s what it was, and he’d do best to figure out where he was headed next. And which mares he wanted, since Cal Willman was too financially troubled to come up with a few hundred bucks, the bastard.

The night had turned brutal. Sharp chunks of snow punched from a hostile sky as he waded through the accumulation. Frigid air speared through the layers of wool he wore to freeze against his skin beneath, but he was too damn het up to let it bother him. His breath rose in great puffs.

Anger built with every step he took, a rage he fought to control. What a pompous, heartless son of a bitch to think he could barter a grown woman like a broodmare in his paddock.

Ned appeared out of the blackness, sidestepping his gelding to get the hell out of the way. “Whoa, what put you in a fightin’ mood?”

What had happened in that house was no one’s business. What Willman had offered him seared like a raging flame in his guts. Another man would have taken him up on it. It was a free country, sure, but women were at the mercy of the men responsible for them. Cal Willman wanted to be rid of his stepdaughter; it was plain and simple for any man to see.

Who would he offer her to next? Ned? Or Rhodes? There was the cold-eyed cowpoke, following Ned out of the storm. The small, mean-spirited man held his rifle still, cocked and ready. Eager to earn what he considered a fortune at the unholy killing of that mystical stallion.

What if Rhodes had found the Appaloosa and Willman had offered Katelyn as the prize?

Dillon’s guts twisted so hard he missed the bottom porch step. The thought of the cowboy’s grimy, stubby fingers on her creamy satin skin made his vision blur. Rage roared through him like a firestorm, obliterating everything as he kicked his boots off in the corner and jammed wood into the potbellied stove with enough force to dent steel.

She wasn’t his to protect. He knew it.

It went to show how much he sparked for her.

“The horseman’s in a good mood,” Rhodes quipped as he stomped into the bunkhouse, snow crumbling off his boots and onto the plank floor. “Pissed you didn’t get the reward, I reckon. Good, ’cuz it takes a real man to take down a piece of horseflesh like that. Knows these prairies, and where to hide. Don’t worry yourself none, ’cuz I plan to draw him out.”

“If you figure on taking one of Willman’s prized mares with you, one in heat, don’t figure on it working.” Dillon couldn’t believe how dumb some men could be. That animal had been wounded. He’d be doubly hard to hunt down now. “Take off your damn boots. I’m not sweeping up that mess.”

He jammed the door shut, needing a target for his anger and knowing the danger in that. He couldn’t remember the last time he had felt this furious. A raging mad that whirled inside him like a hurricane, growing inside itself until it threatened to break down his control. And all because of a woman.

He was a sad, sorry man. He ached for her as he washed the hard ride’s grime from his face and brushed his teeth in front of the cracked mirror in the necessary room. His reflection confirmed it. Lines on his face, the deep furrows in his brow. He was troubled, no doubt about it.

His bunk was damn cold. The sheets crackled with frost as he hunkered down between them. The old tin lantern cast a sputtering light, enough to read by if he squinted some. The brazen words of William Blake drew him into the poem but did not take his mind from her.

He could see the light of her bedroom window, if he leaned to the left and craned his neck just right. The ranch house was dark except for one faint gleam in her window. A single candle, he wagered, flickering around her as she stood at the foot of her bed. He felt like a criminal watching her.

No decent man peered into a lady’s bedroom window, but he looked anyway. She’d left the curtains open, and he saw the graceful curve of her back as she stooped, folding something with care. The way she bent, elegant and slender, the perfect rounding of her spine elongated her neck and accentuated the alluring curve of her full breasts.

Desire pulsed through him like a whip’s lash. Fast. Unexpected. Fierce. The snap of it surprised him. He was rock hard, his long johns straining, suddenly tight at his groin as he leaned toward the small grubby window that gave him a view of hers.

The faint light caressed her sweet woman’s form, stroking her like a dedicated lover. His hands curved, wishing. He ought to be ashamed, lusting after her. But it wasn’t only lust he felt.

She sure was something. Longing tugged at his heart, at every inch of his being. Down to his very soul. I want her so much.

Ned’s rough voice rang at the far end of the house as he uncapped a bottle of whiskey and a few more of the boys crowded inside, stomping ice from their boots, growling at the weather and the damn horse that had eluded them. The noise reminded Dillon where he was. He wasn’t about to be caught pining over a woman clearly too good for him.

He leaned into the pillows and held his book up to the light. He read, but tonight the bright images and powerful words did not move him. He was too tired, too cold, too distracted. Maybe it was best to call it a