How To Lasso A Cowboy

“I’ve not sought your sister out, sir.” Woodburn’s words were clipped, irritating in their truth.

“Nor I yours.” Cooper wanted to know where the man stood. If he had an enemy, it was best to know it now. “My presence in your store has always been for business. Nothing more.” How could the Yankee think that he might be courting Mary? All Cooper was trying to do was make her not jump with fear whenever she saw him.

Woodburn nodded once. “Then you’re welcome as long as we understand one another.”

“We understand one another.” Cooper turned and stomped up the steps. He didn’t go inside, but watched the moon glisten off the tattered buggy as it disappeared down the ribbon of road toward town. Anger rushed through his veins like a prairie ?re in a draught. He wasn’t some hotheaded youth who needed to be warned to stay away from his sister. Cooper had done nothing improper. Mary was in her midtwenties, an old maid by anyone’s standard. Even if he had been courting, she could speak for herself. She didn’t need a brother riding herd over her.

He smiled, realizing he’d been even more absurd than the shop owner suggesting there might be any hint of a ?irtation between Woodburn and Winnie. She would be forty her next birthday. Even in her youth, Winnie had never been the kind to draw a man’s eye.

By the time he went back in the house, the sisters had retired to their rooms, like birds nesting for the night. He poured himself the last of the coffee and sat down at his desk. He intended to work, but couldn’t resist opening the bottom drawer. There, hidden away from the world, was his collection of books. Dickens, Poe, Thoreau, and a dozen others.

Not many, he thought, compared to the private libraries in homes back east, but more books than most had this far west. His parents had settled this land with one book, the Bible. They hadn’t thought reading or writing very useful skills but Cooper’s mother taught Johanna, then Johanna taught Emma, then Emma taught Winnie. Then of course, Winnie taught him.

Cooper grinned. His schooling was not only sparse, it had been ?ltered down to the point he should be surprised to recognize his own name.

He picked up Kingsley’s Westward Ho. A year, maybe longer, had passed since he’d held a book in his hand, but the welcome feeling was still there, inviting him in, engaging him to stay. He told himself there was never enough time to read anymore, but he knew it was more than that. Cooper no longer believed in dreams. Somehow, one has to be able to dream to be lost in a story. And of late, just making it through each day had become his only goal.

Leaning back, with the book in his hand, Cooper looked around his home, really seeing it for the ?rst time since he’d built it. After the war, when he came back to the ranch his father had homesteaded, he could not wait to increase the herd, build this house, and start a family. He had it all planned out, wanting to forget the ?ghting and the time he lost. He wanted to start living.

But the war wouldn’t stay over. Everywhere, even on the frontier, there were reminders of the open wound that remained after the ?ghting stopped.

The battles returned when he tried to sleep. Sometimes he woke in the middle of the night and rushed to the washstand, trying desperately to rub away the smell of blood that still lingered on his hands. He would see a part of a uniform, blue or gray, and the bitterness he had lived with for two and a half long years stung his tongue once more. Turning from a boy to a man on the battle?elds, he’d managed to survive, but a price was paid with nightmares.

Closing his eyes, Cooper swore he would never tell anyone about the ghosts that haunted him. They’d think him crazy, and he had too much responsibility to let that happen. He’d seen the ones ghosts had claimed in towns across the South, men who never came home in their minds. Men who wandered, still seeing battles, still crying for their lost brothers, still hearing bugles long silent.

Cooper gripped the book with a determined hold, refusing to reach for the bottle he kept in his right drawer. Tonight, he would read. He’d force himself into a story until exhaustion lulled him to sleep.

Somehow, knowing Mary was also reading made it easier. Cooper concentrated on each word, thinking that, if their paths crossed again, he’d give her this book also. If he did, he might need to remember the story so he could talk to her about it. Maybe one day they could visit without fear shimmering in her eyes.

“Follow the bridge,” he mumbled to himself. The books were all he had that linked them. He was afraid to question why he needed this bond with a woman he hardly knew, for if he re?ected too closely he might ?nd the whole of him packed with loneliness.

Two hours melted away before he looked up. Laying the book down, he stretched, his muscles relaxing. Tonight he might be able to sleep.

As he stood, he noticed the thin slice of light beneath Winnie’s door. On impulse, he crossed to her room and tapped, fearing she might have gone to sleep with the lamp still burning.

“Yes,” she answered too quickly to have been asleep.

Cooper opened the door. “You all right?”

Winnie put down her sewing. “I’m ?ne. I was just doing some mending and got carried away.” She lifted her watch pin from the nightstand. “I didn’t realize it was so late. It’s been such a delightful day, I guess I didn’t want it to end.”

Cooper smiled. Only Winnie would lose track of time while mending or think getting caught in the rain was delightful. “Well, good night.” He started to close the door then paused. “Promise me the next time you need to go to town, you’ll let Duly or me hitch up a wagon for you. One of us is usually around.”

“I promise.” She returned to her mending. “By the time I realized what a walk it was, I was already over halfway there. Thank goodness Miles could bring me home.”

“Miles?”

“Mr. Woodburn.” Winnie blushed.

“Yes, thank goodness for Miles.” He closed the door before she saw his frown. He didn’t like his sister calling the Yankee “Miles.” He didn’t like it one bit.

Three days passed with Winnie still talking about Mr. Woodburn, and every word stuck in Cooper’s craw.

No one in town liked the man. Surely Winnie could see that. Oh, they might go in his store from time to time, mainly because he took trade for supplies. Most in the South were money poor, though rich in land and cattle. The cattle drives and settlers traveling through used him because he’d deliver out to their campsite. Debord gladly gave Woodburn that business. It wasn’t practical to lose half a day’s work delivering supplies then try to get back to town before some downonhisluck cowboy robbed him.

But with Winnie, it was Mr. Woodburn this and Mr. Woodburn that, like he only spouted universal truths. She must have repeated his every word at least ten times.

Cooper wondered how the man had had time to say so much in the course of one afternoon.

Johanna and Emma had long since grown bored with her chatter about the Woodburns and the chair she was redoing. They talked over her as if she were little more than a babbling child making noise in the corner.

Cooper couldn’t bring himself to do that. After all, Winnie had been the one who taught him to read and write, and to imagine what might be in the world. She had played games with him when there were no children near his age and made dragons of the clouds in the lazy summer days before he became a man and gave up such things. So now he listened to her, again and again, without commenting.

At night he read, rediscovering how much he loved it, how much he missed it. As the days passed, he decided that the strange feeling he got when Mary touched him was nothing more than loneliness. No woman had been near him for quite a while. No respectable woman anyway. The girls at the saloon were always brushing up against him when he stopped by for a drink, but they were like cats purring and pawing. He’d long ago grown cold to their nearness. But Mary was different.

By the end of the week, the curiosity to see her climbed beyond his good sense of steering clear of her brother. He told himself it would be good for him to at least talk to a respectable girl. His sisters were making plans to invite every lady in the county to a party as soon as he gave in to a date. Maybe Mary would offer him a little practice at conversation.

After all, what harm could it do?

Chapter Seven