mercantile, his face the color of ripe beets.
“Excuse me, Miss Renaulde.” Amanda clambored onto the wagon seat. “I really mustn’t dawdle. Have a nice day.”
A fleeting glance over her shoulder reminded her of a story she once read about the folly of awakening a sleeping lion.
This lion didn’t have a bit of sleep in his eye.
Chapter 6
Blood thundered in Amanda’s ears as Amarillo faded like remnants of a dusty dream under the speeding wagon wheels. The sun bore a tad more heat than ordinary. But to be honest, she couldn’t lay the blame for moisture pooling between her breasts solely on the warm rays.
An unfamiliar feeling rippled, the intensity choking her.
Something indescribable had changed. Her life had taken a totally unexpected turn. Good, bad, or indifferent-it shook her to the core.
The cloudless sky appeared a vivid turquoise instead of simply blue. Crows flitted and dipped through the air in some sort of odd bird promenade. Perhaps they, too, sensed this odd awakening of sorts.
For once she’d bested the buffle-headed land-grubbers. McCord should understand she wouldn’t abide any cheap tricks.
Although he denied writing the love letters, and perhaps she could believe that without too great a stretch, he hadn’t stood up for her. He hadn’t stopped the ridicule. He hadn’t seen beneath the surface. Disgust for her chosen profession had colored his minty gaze a shadowed tint of purple nightshade.
The man could be dangerous in a way she’d never known.
Before she reached home, a sobering thought crossed her mind, one she didn’t particularly relish-McCord would insist on returning the valise. Putting the assortment of imprisoning devices in the case made certain of that.
She’d have to see him again.
Sudden recollection of the sinful curve of his mouth rocked confidence that she could handle the visit. A horde of locusts seemed to have made a nest in her stomach.
From the wagon bed, the gentle slosh of vinegar against the sides of the bottle added to the floundering in her brain.
At least she had all the ingredients for a vinegar pie. Didn’t hurt to have one ready to throw in McCord’s well- chiseled face. The concoction would serve the conniving jularker right.
She crested a rise and the adobe dwelling she called home came into view. Her breathing returned to normal. She was back on her land where she knew the workings of things, where she didn’t have to pretend, where she could be who she wanted without worry or fear of reprisal. Her dog and her flock provided all the security she needed even though it did get a bit dreary at times. Give her that any day to a piece of the world that saw and judged people unfairly.
The familiar sight also served to remind of her distaste for cattlemen. Something she needed to bear in mind next time she encountered the broad-shouldered Texan. She welcomed the pain if only because it drew horns on P.M.’s handsome head. And anyone else who chose the path to her door.
Movement in front of her home brought skitters of alarm until she saw long braids on the man who eased from the weather-beaten willow chair. Her old Navajo friend, John Two Shoes Running Deer, always seemed to know the precise time for shearing, although he had no use for printed calendars. He marked the days in his head and by the seasons, as his culture had taught for generations. She pulled the horses to a stop and set the brake.
“John, it’s wonderful to see you.”
“I’m here every spring.” He helped her down. “Or are you surprised I didn’t freeze over the winter?”
“Your skin is about as tough as alligator. I doubt you felt the cold. Besides, your hogan is probably warmer than the inside of Hades. I’m just glad for the company.”
Now let McCord come calling. She wasn’t alone.
“Only a fool would refuse the offer of a new wool shirt in exchange for shearing a few sheep.” John’s eyes twinkled. “Your handiwork is some of the finest. You spin and weave in the old customs. If I didn’t know of your heritage I’d believe you had Navajo blood.”
Amanda scowled. “With a Spanish mother and Scottish father, I’m afraid I’m a sorry mixture.”
The blend of nationalities was the kind that aroused prejudice and misgivings. The kind that destroyed chances of a normal life. It seemed men couldn’t look beyond the surface to see how she ached to fit in.
John peered into the bed of the wagon. “You’ve been to town. It explains the burrs under your
“Can’t hide much from an old war-hide like you.”
“People will continue to shun if you keep adopting the ways of the Indian. Your moccasins remind of your stubbornness.”
“Who said I want to be a horn-tossing hypocrite? My feet are happier in these moccasins than heavy boots.” Images of cold stares, the sneers of some of Amarillo’s finest, created a brittle hardness inside. “Those buffoons wouldn’t accept me no matter what I do.”
“Pain in your heart says this time was worse.”
She side-stepped the unpleasant subject, casting an eye to the sun’s overhead position. “We’re wasting time flapping our gums. If we hurry we can get a few sheep done before dark. I’ll fix a place for you to bed down until we finish the job.”
“I sleep outside under the stars.”
“As you wish.”
“It is.” John lifted the sack of flour, threw it over his shoulder, and carried it into the house while Amanda gave a sharp command for Fraser to round up the flock.
Sight of the collie marching the sheep toward the fold like fat, little soldiers banished raw feelings. She could count on the animal to do his job with skilled perfection. Unlike people. Bitterness rose. Years had flown and yet certain events ate at her sanity…
Argus Lemmons’s abandonment upon the heels of her mother’s death opened wounds that had scarred with age. Sure, he’d left Amanda in the care of an old aunt. But he did his daughter no favor, considering the woman forced her to stand on the street and pretend blindness so passersby would toss a few coins in her cup. Not that she got to keep any for herself. Dear Auntie made her strip and scrubbed her thoroughly for any hidden tokens.
“Worthless stray mutt,” Aunt Zelda would call Amanda, wrinkling up her nose. “Argus shoulda drowned you.”
Amanda turned fifteen before she got up enough courage to set out alone for Santa Fe to start a life that had to be better than lying, begging, and starvation.
Except new surroundings didn’t improve Amanda’s situation. A few years later, her fancy suitor left her at the altar after he made the less than thrilling discovery that she was heir to nothing but a scraggly flock of sheep. He abruptly moved Amanda from the assets to the liability column.
And fighting Argus’s second wife for a place in her father’s heart had most certainly shown the worst of humanity.
The hollow victory of survival spared Amanda peace in the dead of night. She was still that stray mutt looking for a home.
If the world had a dropping off point, she’d found it on this rocky piece of land in the Texas Panhandle. High winds, dry winters, and low rainfall didn’t represent being in high cotton, but this parcel of shortgrass prairie was hers and they’d have to kill her to get her off.
Today she’d almost forgotten the anguish that twisted like a knife before McCord up and heaped on a lot more. Then, she did the same as she’d always done. She ran.
Well, she wouldn’t run again. She squared her jaw. This was the last button remaining on Jacob’s coat!
