Pete (The Cowboys) (3 page)

Anne was fighting so hard against the two men pulling at her, she took only the most momentary notice that another man had ridden up. She heard the newcomer talking, but she paid no attention until he dismounted, walked up to her uncle, and hit him so hard in the face that he fell to the ground. Cyrus turned to attack the man, but he was sent sprawling just as quickly.

“My name is Peter Warren,” the man announced. “This woman is my wife. I’ll kill the next man who lays a hand on her.”

When the man had broken Cyrus’s hold on Anne, she stumbled backward, lost her balance, and fell to the ground. She sat there, stunned at Peter’s last-minute arrival, at her miraculous escape. She looked up, but the sun was in her eyes. She could only see the shape of the man who’d rescued her. From her position on the ground, he looked huge and strong, with broad shoulders and powerful thighs. There was nothing of the shy, rather timorous boy she remembered. This was a man in the full powers of his maturity, certain of his own strength, apparently afraid of nothing.

Anne fell head over heels in love with him in an instant.

“Let me help you up,” the man said.

She had to stop thinking of him as
the man.
He was Peter Warren, her childhood friend and confidant, her husband.

His hand was strong and calloused. He pulled her to her feet in one effortless motion. She didn’t know what kind of work hardware store owners were called on to do in Illinois, but Peter had obviously worked long and hard to have developed into a man such as this.

“Did they hurt you?” he asked.

“N-no.” She couldn’t think straight. Even his voice had changed. It sounded much deeper, more forceful. Of course it would. He was fourteen when she last saw him, twenty-four now. Everything about him had changed. For the better.

She hadn’t realized he was so tall until she found herself staring at the buttons in the middle of his chest. She was used to being told she was a dab of a girl, used to men towering over her, but he was taller than any man present. She didn’t remember Peter being very tall, but she’d been very young when he left.

“Who the hell are you?” Belser demanded. He’d come up without Anne’s being aware of his approach.

“I already told you.”

“You can’t be,” Belser said.

Anne was aware of a sudden hardening of Peter’s gaze, of an abrupt feeling of dangerous tension in the air.

“Why would you say that?” Peter asked

“You don’t look like you’re supposed to,” Belser said.

“How am I supposed to look?” Peter asked.

“Like your father’s picture,” Belser said. “And you don’t act a thing like Uncle Carl said you would.”

“I take after my mother’s side of the family,” Peter said.

“I don’t give a damn who you are or who you favor,” Anne’s uncle said, getting to his feet. “That’s my niece, and she’s marrying Cyrus here.”

“That would be bigamy,” Peter replied succinctly, “and that’s against the law.”

“I want to see some proof she’s married to you,” Cyrus said.

“I don’t have it,” Peter said, directing his gaze back to Belser. “Someone tried to kill me on my way here. They burned my wagon and stole my papers.”

“You’re lying, too,” Cyrus shouted.

“Maybe you’ll believe this.” Peter took off his hat and pushed back his straight, brown hair to disclose a wound that couldn’t have been more than two weeks old.

“Anybody could have shot you,” Belser said.

“True, but that doesn’t change the fact that my death would have enabled you to inherit this ranch.”

“I didn’t shoot you,” Belser said. “I haven’t been off the place in weeks. And I still don’t believe you’re Peter Warren.”

“I am, and I can prove it, but you’ll have to wait until I can write my lawyer.”

“That could take a couple of months,” Cyrus exclaimed.

“Probably.”

“I’ll take charge of my niece until then,” her uncle said.

“Anne is staying right here. And the first man who lays a hand on her will get a bullet in him.”

Pete looked around at the assembled horsemen, who had watched in silence. “What are all these people doing here?” he asked Anne.

“They’re here to see that Belser didn’t take over the ranch until twelve o’clock,” Anne explained.

“Why should they carer?”

“I wanted to make sure Carl’s nephew wasn’t cut out of his chance,” a particularly large and powerful man said.

“And who are you?” Peter demanded.

“Bill Mason. I own the 3-Bar-3. My range runs alongside the Tumbling T.”

“He wants to take over this ranch, too,” Belser said. “He wants to control all of northeastern Wyoming.”

“Not that much,” Mason said. “But I did offer to buy the place after Carl had his accident.”

“You could buy it for a whole lot less after you rustled half our cattle,” Belser said.

Bill Mason’s power and position in the county were unquestioned. Anne supposed that was the reason Belser’s hotheaded accusation evoked little more than a faint, pitying smile.

“Everybody knows rustlers will hit a ranch the moment a bear like Carl is wounded,” Mason said. “That many cows is too much temptation to resist.”

“For you to resist, you mean,” Belser said.

“I don’t need your cows,” Mason replied.

“I think you meant to say
my
cows,” Peter corrected him. “I promise you, the rustling will stop. Anybody I catch gets hanged on the spot.”

He’d just issued a challenge. Anne didn’t know how Peter had the nerve to do such a thing to these hard men. They’d fought Indians, wild animals, and each other to build their ranches. They didn’t back down from anybody.

But apparently neither did Peter. She continued to be amazed at his transformation.

“Exactly what I would do,” Mason said. “Having a ranch without a strong leader encourages rustlers. That affects all of us.”

The look he directed at Belser contained enough scorn to have abashed a man twice as prideful as Belser. It seemed to just bounce off Belser’s armor of anger and frustration. His face was flushed, and the veins in his neck stood out like taut ropes.

“I’m strong enough to take care of the rustlers,” Belser said.

“They’re still here,” Mason pointed out.

“That’s because I couldn’t do anything until twelve o’clock today,” Belser said.

“Now that Carl’s nephew is here, you don’t have to do anything at all,” Mason said.

“I still don’t believe he’s Peter Warren,” Belser said.

“What you believe doesn’t matter,” Peter said.

“It sure as hell does when I’m the one getting cheated out of this ranch.”

“You never had the ranch,” Peter said. “And if you don’t back down and shut your mouth, I’ll throw you off it.”

Nobody had ever threatened to throw Belser out, not even Carl. Anne expected him to bellow his fury. Much to her surprise, he struggled visibly to get his temper under control.

“We’ll see,” Belser said. “You’re not the only one with a lawyer.”

“I’ll be going,” Bill Mason said. “Let me know if I can do anything to help.”

“I might be calling on you to lend a hand with this rustling,” Peter said.

“Come over any time,” Mason replied. He nodded in the direction of Anne’s uncle and Cyrus “You want me to take them with me?”

“No. I can handle them,” Peter said.

Anne would have felt better if Peter had let Mason take care of her uncle and her prospective bridegroom. She didn’t especially like Mason—he was too rough and unfeeling—but she had complete confidence in his ability to handle her uncle.

At a signal from him, Mason’s men turned and followed him out of the ranch yard.

Peter turned to her uncle. “I’ll send someone into Big Bend tomorrow with a letter for my lawyer. I’ll let you know when I get the marriage papers.”

“I’ll have the sheriff out to you before then,” her uncle threatened. “We don’t allow men to carry off our women.”

“I’m not carrying Anne anywhere. There’s no better place for a man’s wife than at his side.”

Her uncle swore viciously. “She’s not your wife!”

“I say she is. Now unless you want me to knock you down again, you’ll take your friend and get out of here.”

“You’ll hear from me,” Cyrus said. “I’m a powerful man. I—”

Peter pulled his gun and fired into the ground at Cyrus’s feet. Anne jumped, and her hand flew to her mouth to smother a small shriek.

“You’ll be a dead man if you don’t get off my land,” Peter said. “I don’t think a Wyoming jury would find it at all out of the way if I was to kill you for trying to carry off my wife.”

“I wasn’t trying to carry her off.”

Peter turned to Dolores. “Didn’t it look to you like he was trying to carry her off?”

“It certainly did,” Dolores responded vigorously.

“Didn’t it look the same to you?” Peter asked Belser.

Belser hesitated but finally nodded his agreement.

“That’s three of us,” Peter said. “I imagine Mason would back us. That ought to be enough for any judge.”

Anne could tell her uncle knew he had been outma-neuvered.

“I agree with Belser,” he said. “I don’t believe you’re Peter.”

Anne could tell her uncle knew this was a groundless objection. He could see the money he’d hoped to get from Cyrus disappearing, and it made him furious.

“I don’t give a damn who you are,” Cyrus said. “I want that woman.”

Peter turned his gaze on Cyrus, and Anne watched a coldness grow in his expression. “I would say she’s more a girl than a woman,” Peter said. He turned to Anne. “How old are you?”

“Seventeen.”

“Well, that makes you a woman out here.” He turned back to Cyrus. “She’s still much too young for an old lobo like you. Now get off, both of you, while I still have some control over my temper.”

They watched in silence as her uncle and Cyrus mounted up and rode off. Anne could hear them quarreling, threatening each other, but she didn’t care. She was safe. She was married. Peter had returned, and he was more of a man than she’d ever dreamed possible.

“And what’s your place around here?” Peter said, turning to Belser.

“If you were really Carl’s nephew, you’d know.”

“I know what Carl thought,” Peter said. “I want to know what you think.”

Anne knew Belser had counted on having the ranch. He’d been trying to give orders for weeks, telling the men he’d fire them the moment he got control if they didn’t do what he wanted. Only the foreman’s determination had prevented Belser from taking over.

“Carl let me live in the house and eat with him, but I’m just a hand,” Belser finally said.

“I’ll do the same as long as you don’t kick up any dust,” Peter said. “Now I suggest you set about earning your wages.”

Belser looked as though he wanted to say more, but he turned and stomped off toward the corral.

“Tell me what’s going on around here,” Peter said, turning to Anne. “It looks like I’ve landed in one hell of a mess.”

Chapter Two

Pete told himself he was crazy. What chivalrous impulse had caused him to tell everybody he was Peter Warren? For all he knew, they had nothing in common but their first names. Was that the reason he’d decided to pretend to be someone he wasn’t? He’d better clear things up right away and get the hell out of here.

But he couldn’t do that. He’d trailed the killers to this ranch. It didn’t surprise him it was the Tumbling T. He’d already decided that someone in Peter’s family had killed him. One of Mason’s cowhands had told him what Anne’s uncle was trying to do. Pete had realized that pretending to be Peter would give him reason to stay and an opportunity to search for the killers. They had his money, all the gold he’d managed to mine in his five years in Montana. He wasn’t about to let anybody steal it from him. If they’d moved on, he’d clear things up and go after them.

But he couldn’t just yet. Anne’s uncle would be back in five minutes to force her to marry that dried-up old husk of a man. Belser would get a ranch Pete had already decided he’d committed murder for—or hired someone to commit the murder for him. It went against the grain to let anybody get away with such a cold-blooded swindle.

No, he’d continue as Peter Warren for a little while yet, though there was one small problem. Anne. From the look in her eyes, she adored Peter. Pete didn’t know what he was going to do about that, but he couldn’t take advantage of her. Even if his own conscience would have allowed it, his adopted mother’s teaching wouldn’t. He wouldn’t put it past Isabelle to somehow know what he’d done and come all the way from Texas to hang him out to dry.

Anne was a pretty young woman, exactly the kind to go in for hero worship. He didn’t know if Peter was worthy of her high regard, but Pete had to find some way to tell her gently that he wasn’t Peter. But he couldn’t do that either. She looked the kind who couldn’t tell a lie. Probably couldn’t keep a secret, either.