Give Me A Texan

the cattle empires surrounding her fifty-acre strip of battleground.

“The fool must’ve let the wind carry his bonnet off. The hat’s on my land now, and he’ll get it back over my dead body.”

If the cattlemen wanted war, she’d certainly oblige.

Tucking the find under her arm, Amanda beamed with pride in the way her border collie firmly commanded the modest flock she’d inherited, encompassing the sheep in a sweeping arc before driving them forward. Fraser had been with her father, Argus Lemmons, since a pup, and was raised with sheep until the animal probably thought he could bleat with the best of them.

She sighed with relief when she climbed from an arroyo and caught sight of her adobe house and sandstone corral. A sudden gust of wind flapped a piece of paper on her door. Prickles rose on the back of her neck. Someone had come onto her property uninvited again. Her gaze narrowed to the calling card tacked to her door.

“Another damnable note!” Her sudden outburst perked Fraser’s ears, though his sharp eyes never left his wooly charges.

Amanda’s anger simmered to a low boil.

Mysterious letters, three so far, had suddenly appeared over the last week. Each one had spoken of the brightness of her smile, the pleasing curve of her lips, and other such drivel. None bore a clue to the Lothario’s identity.

She wouldn’t allow them to rattle her. Whatever the caller intended, she wouldn’t let it cloud twenty-eight years of judgment that kept her on firm ground thus far.

“Put the flock to bed, Fraser, and let’s rest our bones.”

The collie’s sharp yap seemed to agree as he herded the baahing chorus into the pen.

“Good boy.” Amanda quickly shut and fastened the gate, then bent to scratch his ears. The dog’s tongue lolled to the side, his tail whipping her leg. “You’re all a woman could wish for. You earned an extra treat tonight. The least I can do is feed you a meal fit for a king. Now, let’s find out if the trespassing varmint who left that on our door put his name to this declaration of love.”

In a way she hoped it was the cowboy looking for his hat. She’d take special delight in making sure he never found it.

A tack held the same brown paper used in any ordinary dry goods store. She ripped off the offending scrap, scanning the area again for the skulking culprit. But nothing moved except the swaying sea of wild rye and sagebrush.

“It’s a good thing the miserable wretch didn’t hang around to show his face. I’d make him rue the day he messed with me.”

The collie scooted past her into the house and poised beside a piece of broken powder keg bearing the faded words U.S. ARMY MUNITIONS. Her father had come across the makeshift dish that the regiments had tossed aside once they finished civilizing the Indians. One thing about Argus, he found a use for everything except a daughter. Sudden pain pricked her heart. Even in death he could still wound. A ragged breath squeezed from her mouth.

Fraser cocked his head to the side, whined, and lifted a paw.

“Beggar.” Amanda wagged her finger. “For shame.”

Dropping the note on the table, she smoothed the thick fur, accepting Fraser’s wet caresses. “One day I’ll get you a real bowl. You deserve much better. Rest while I whip up that feast I promised. Everything is safe for tonight.”

The latest missive received little more than a cursory glance. She scurried about the kitchen corner that consisted of a stove and a few half-empty crates that doubled as cabinets. She really should go to town to restock supplies.

The thought brought a tightening in her chest.

Amarillo didn’t exactly throw out the welcome mat for a mutton puncher. A smart woolie had to know how to keep to herself in a cattle town. Sometimes the lines blurred, making distance all but impossible.

“To keep our bellies fed I have to pretend to like the connivers and backstabbers. Pig’s foot!”

In no time, Amanda dished Fraser a good helping of roasted leg of lamb and carrots she’d fetched from the root cellar. To top off the fare, she added a thick slice of sourdough. The collie had his principles it seemed, promptly nosing the crusty bread to the side before attacking the meat with relish.

She laughed and measured herself a smaller portion on a tin plate while she tried not to jar the rickety table, praying the legs held together a bit longer until she could save up for something better. She’d shear the sheep soon. Folks paid top dollar for wool even though they despised the animal it came from. She intended to sell a few of the flock. Many of the ewes had birthed lambs, so her number had risen. But finding a buyer had become more difficult of late. The cattlemen had the market sewn up, leaving little room for anything else. Yet they kept harping how sheep destroyed the land, making it unfit for their precious bovine. No satisfying the puffed-up land grubbers.

Amanda blinked away tears. Damn them!

Hell would freeze over before she let them force her out. Of the overwhelming numbers of sheepherders once occupying the area, only three stood their ground. Seemed she’d always occupied a spot someone else wanted.

Sometimes in the mist of a gray dawn she dreamed a handsome prince would pluck her from the endless despair and add his strength to hers. And, if a girl dreamed, she might as well dream large. This man wouldn’t mind the bleating of sheep.

His kisses would bring light to a world that had been dark so long.

His arms would be strong enough to withstand the buffeting winds of the cattlemen’s greed.

And his wild spirit would equal her cussed mule-headedness.

Words on the note she’d casually flung to the table caught her interest. She held the paper to the glare of the lamp.

“My Dearest Amanda,” it began.

I yearn to see the beauty of your face, hear the tone of your voice, and inhale your fragrance that wafts in the wind like a million wildflowers in bloom. Please meet me in Amarillo by morning in the lobby of the hotel. Then, you shall know the love I speak. Look for the crescent birthmark on my right hand and the adoration in my eyes.

The flowing initials P.M. graced the bottom of the letter. P.M.? Who on earth? Longing rippled past life’s disappointments and sorrow. Amanda squelched rising excitement, trying to recall crossing paths with Mr. P.M.

Not that he could truly be a secret admirer, so she’d best remember that. The motive had to be some callous attempt to belittle her. She’d suffered the brunt of ridicule much of her life and knew that particular sting. She wouldn’t put stock in flowery words scribbled on a piece of paper.

The swain wouldn’t trick her. Her adversaries had a bag full of low, unscrupulous practices. She knew them all.

This, however, was a new tactic, and the ruse would prove far more damaging than the others should she buy the flattering prose.

Amanda didn’t. She wouldn’t entertain that for a second.

Her hand shook slightly when she held the note toward glowing embers in the stove. The paper caught easily and turned to ash in minutes. Like her life, it flaked into nothingness and fell amid the flames.

Fraser whined. His soulful, brown eyes said he knew her pain.

Jerking up the wayward Stetson that had come into her tender, loving care, she threw it down and stomped until the black felt flattened into a circle.

Now, should the cowboy come looking, she’d be oh-so-thrilled, in fact duty-bound, to return it.

“Here boy.” She grabbed a handful of oatmeal cookies she’d baked that morning and aimed for the middle of Fraser’s new feeding dish. “I didn’t forget that extra special treat.”

Quiet yearnings settled in the deepest corners of Amanda’s heart. Things she hadn’t revealed to a living soul. She swallowed hard. Years had passed since the abandonment, and yet the hurt haunted. If only she could take solace in the fact that each day took her further from the misery. Except it hadn’t. She was truly, utterly alone.

Amanda glared at the hat. Trust could make a woman do foolish things. She wouldn’t put any faith in a fiddle-