WM02 - Texas Princess (2 page)

Tobin glanced at the open crate. Though it was addressed to Whispering Mountain Ranch, someone had pried two boards up. Tobin wasn’t surprised. Elmo’s curiosity would someday get him kil ed, but not over horse medicine.

He pul ed the thin bottle from the mass of straw. The crate would be hard to carry home, but the bottle would t nicely in his coat pocket for the ride. He smiled, guessing Travis’s wife had been the one to pack the medicine so careful y. Rainey had a way of taking care of details.

Just as he slipped the bottle inside his coat, he heard someone yel , “So you’re the youngest McMurray.”

Tobin fought the urge to hurry. Instead, he faced the men crowding along the other side of the counter. They stared at him through the thin bars as if he were an animal on display for their amusement.

The one who’d addressed him was maybe a year or two older than Tobin. He stood several inches shorter, with his shoulders rounded, but he easily outweighed Tobin by twenty pounds. The stump of a man smiled when he saw he had To-bin’s attention.

“You’re the one they say has horse blood in ya.”

The other men with him laughed.

“They say you don’t talk to nobody but horses.” The stout man laughed. “Heard tel you was shot when you was a boy. Fel beside your dead horse and the blood mixed.”

A redheaded man on the stranger’s left joined in. “That’s right, Wil ie. This is the one.

I’ve heard folks say he can talk to a horse as plain as you and I is talking right now.”

Elmo stepped in front of Tobin, holding up his hands. “Now why don’t you fel ows nish your coffee and get back to work. There ain’t nothing wrong with this man. He’s just quiet, that’s al . Likes to be left alone. There ain’t no crime in that.”

Tobin took a step backward, toward the door.

The stump man shrugged. “We don’t mean nothin’,” he mumbled. “We was just being friendly. Tel me, McMurray, is it true you was shot that day in the heart and lived?”

Another man laughed and mumbled, “I hear tel Mc-Murrays ain’t got hearts.”

Tobin reached the back door. He wasn’t running, he was avoiding a ght over nothing.

There were already enough reasons in this world to ght without fools inventing new ones.

He remembered once when he’d been about twelve . . . he hadn’t run. The ranch hands they’d hired to help build new fences surrounded him one hot afternoon. He’d fought hard, but they’d stripped him to the waist so they could see the scar where he’d been shot in the heart.

When his oldest brother, Teagen, then eighteen, found out what they’d done, he’d red them al and claimed the ranch would do without fences before McMurrays ever asked for help from the likes of them again.

That summer, Tobin had joined his older brothers in the habit of always wearing a gun.

No one would ever force him to do what he didn’t want to do again. They’d hired two Apache men to help a month later, and the brothers had worked from sunup to ful dark until the fences were in place. The McMurrays rationed their help after that, using men only in the spring, and al three brothers kept the habit of traveling armed.

Tobin slipped from the back door of Elmo’s and walked to his horse, glad that he hadn’t had to pul his sidearm. He brushed the chest pocket of his coat, making sure the bottle was safe, then stepped into the saddle. He was ready to get back to the hil s and away from the stench of too many people.

As he rounded the trading post, he found the cowhands waiting for him. Like hungry coyotes, they scurried off the porch and blocked his way. He counted ve on the ground, one on the porch.

The redhead red a round from his rie, and the bay Tobin rode danced with panic while the horses close to the porch bolted and gal oped away.

“So, tel me,” the stout man yel ed. “If you got the blood of a horse in you, maybe you got the brains as wel ?”

Tobin leaned forward, whispering into the bay’s ear to calm her. He watched the men spread out, but he stil didn’t go for his gun. He’d practiced with his brothers and knew he was both fast and accurate, but six-to-one odds would never be good.

The stout man grew braver. “You won’t mind if we have a look to see where that bul et went into your chest. Would you, McMurray?”

Tobin bent low across his horse. He had no intention of talking with these men or of stripping like a curiosity for them. “Stand back,” he ordered.

The man laughed. “Ain’t you al the bossy one now. I heard about how high and mighty you McMurrays al think you are. Just ’cause you own your own hunk of Texas don’t make you special.”

The stump nodded toward the man on the porch. His friend raised the rie aimed at Tobin. “Unless you want another bul et hole in that chest, you’l cooperate. It ain’t nothing personal. I just got a bet on whether you was real y shot as a boy.”

Tobin saw no need for further conversation. He leaned closer and whispered into his mount’s ear, then gave the animal her head.

The bay bolted through the cowhands as if they were no more than rain. He passed the stout man so fast the cowhand didn’t have time to jump out of the way. Tobin saw the man spin and tumble into the steps with a hard thud as a shot rang out from the porch.

Tobin was wel away when he felt something thick and warm soaking his shirt. For a moment he thought he’d been shot again. But there was no pain and Tobin would never forget the agony of a bul et ring through him. He pushed harder not daring to slow until he reached cover.

Memories poured into his mind like lava . . . He’d hurt so badly nineteen years ago that even breathing made him ght screams. The bul et must have passed through him, a hair’s width from his heart. His horse died beside him that day, with Tobin too injured to help. The men who’d shot them both kept circling, kept ring. He’d gripped his rie, feeling their bul ets hit the horse he hid behind. Blindly, he raised and red, reloaded,

red again, and again, until nal y he heard his brothers cal ing his name.

Tobin shoved the memory aside. He’d been so young, a lifetime ago, but he stil remembered every detail of the day he’d been ambushed. At six he’d almost died.

He pushed harder toward home. Wel within the trees, he glanced back to make sure he wasn’t fol owed, then nal y pul ed the reins. Sliding his ngers into his coat Tobin felt glass cut a thin line along his thumb. He pul ed out what remained of the medicine bottle. Glory’s last hope.

When he reached the shelter of the rocks, he climbed down near a stream and washed off the medicine. He’d rather face the cowhands again than go back and tel Sage he’d broken the bottle. She’d give up.

He could tel her the mail wasn’t there, but she’d nd out the truth soon enough. Unlike him, she liked going into town, and on most trips it seemed she talked to everyone she saw.

Climbing back on the bay, he decided there was only one thing left to do. Like his Apache grandfather once told him. “When the truth only brings sorrow, wrap it in the comfort of a lie.”

Now al he had to do was think of one before he made it back to Whispering Mountain.

chapter 2

Y

The noon sun burned down as Tobin rode into

the McMurray ranch house yard stil trying to think of how he’d explain to his sister about breaking the medicine bottle. If he told the truth, she’d never understand why he ran from a ght, plus she’d be so angry she’d probably ride to town and take on the cowhands on behalf of her brother. He might not want to ght, but none of his siblings shared his hesitance.

He noticed the wagon he’d pul ed up near the back porch was gone, tel ing him that Sage and Martha had carried lunch over to the men working on Travis and Rainey’s little cabin in the trees.

When his brother married a few months ago, everyone thought the new bride and groom would stay in Travis’s room when they were home from Austin. But the newlyweds’ rst visit convinced Travis that having them stay in his smal room was a bad idea. Between his wife’s walking in on Tobin almost nude and Teagen’s complaining about the noises after midnight, there was no doubt the couple needed a place of their own.

Travis picked a spot in a clearing surrounded by pecan trees and wel out of hearing distance of the main house. They slept on the ground for three nights before Travis decided exactly where he wanted his new home. Rainey drew up the plans, and he started building. A week later he was cal ed back to Austin to help with a trial, but he sent a couple men to get the job done as fast as possible.

The workers were wel trained and no trouble. They slept in a tent beside the construction. The only problem seemed to be that Travis promised meals, and they had a habit of eating three times a day. The bunkhouse cook, who came every spring to cook for any hands, had retired to Galveston, leaving Martha and Sage to prepare meals for any men working on the ranch. Martha swore she’d have the grassland to the site worn to dirt by the time the men nished Travis and Rainey’s house, even though she only delivered their three meals once a day.

Tobin looked in the direction of the clearing but couldn’t see the wagon returning. He jumped from his horse and headed straight for the barn.

Glory lay in her stal , just as she’d been when he left. Her pale yel ow-brown mane blended with straw. It seemed as if she were vanishing a little more every time he saw her.

“Hey, pretty palomino.” Tobin whispered the greeting he’d used for her al his life. “You want to stand up and say hel o?”

Her ears twitched, but she didn’t move.

He slid his hand along her sleek neck. The handkerchief he’d used to bandage his thumb was now soaked in blood, but Tobin hardly noticed the wound. If Glory didn’t move soon, he knew she’d be dead.

“Come on, pretty girl, stand up for me.” He rubbed his hand down her long nose wishing he had just a little of the medicine left.

When his hand crossed the end of her nose, she snorted and opened her eyes.

Tobin smiled. “Morning.” He moved his ngers over her once more, and she snorted again when she breathed in his

bloody bandage.

He unwrapped his hand and let her smel the fresh blood.

Glory huffed her disapproval.

He gripped her head, making her smel again as a few crimson drops splattered over her.

She jerked away, but he kept his hand against her nose. “You hate that smel , don’t you, pretty girl?” If he couldn’t get her to react to kind words, maybe it was time to make her mad. He released his hold, but kept his bloody hand close so if she breathed in, she’d be smel ing blood.

For a second, he swore he saw anger in her wild eyes. He offered no words to calm her as he usual y did.

She pul ed back, raising her head and mane out of the straw. A moment later Glory stood on al four legs and jerked her head out of his reach.

Tobin laughed. “It’s al right, pretty girl. You don’t have to smel that anymore.” He wrapped his thumb, then lifted her water bucket with his unharmed hand. “How about we start with a little water for breakfast?”

She smel ed the water, hesitated, then drank. The water splashed across the end of her nose washing away Tobin’s blood.

He’d just fed her oats when he heard Sage. “Tobin!” she cal ed as she strode into the barn. “I’m so glad you—” She walked around the end of the stal and froze. “Oh, Tobin, it worked. It worked.”

Tobin nodded as Sage took over the care of her horse. He stepped back and watched as his little sister babied the big animal as though they were best friends. He felt like he’d tried everything to make Glory better, but he hadn’t tried anger.

“The medicine’s al gone.” He stayed with the truth.

“It doesn’t matter,” Sage answered as she began brushing Glory down. “She’s better.

That’s what counts.”

Shrugging, he walked toward the house. He’d never understand females, even the four-legged kind. That’s one reason he never planned to marry. If he had to live with a woman, be around one al the time, his brain would probably explode from trying to

gure her out. People in general confused him, but women seemed to have their own brand of mystery.

Once, several years back, when Sage had been running around yel ing at them and crying over nothing, Teagen had demanded to know what was wrong with her. Martha shook her head and, after wishing they had a parent to talk to, said that Sage had gotten Eve’s Curse. The brothers sat on the porch for an hour trying to gure out what Eve’s Curse was and hoping it wasn’t catching. They nal y elected Tobin to go back in the kitchen and ask Martha more about the strange disease. He’d barely got the rst question out when she thumped him on the head with her our-covered wooden spoon.

End of discussion.

Martha now met him at the back door as his steps creaked across the porch. Tobin couldn’t keep from smiling at the old housekeeper. To learn anything from her always came with the threat of brain damage.

She didn’t bother to return his smile. “About time you got here. Sage jumped from the wagon before I could stop to run check on that old horse. I had to carry al the pots in by myself, and I’m no spring chicken.”

Before he could apologize, she caught sight of his hand. “Lord, boy, what have you done?”

He raised one eyebrow. That was the second time he’d been cal ed a boy today, and it was starting to irritate him. He didn’t answer the housekeeper as she unwrapped his thumb and pul ed him toward the sink. From the day she’d arrived on the ranch, Tobin always had the impression Martha hated al men, and boys were simply shorter versions.

Teagen hired her to take care of baby Sage and run the house. Their parents were both dead and the three boys had been ghting off rustlers for two months when Martha showed up with everything she owned in a pil owcase. She took one look at Tobin and declared that he was the dirtiest living thing she’d ever encountered. Martha bul ied and bribed them al until they “cleaned up” enough to come inside. At one point Tobin claimed he’d rather live with the horses than fol ow her rules, but like his older brothers, the smel of home cooking eventual y changed his mind.

In al those years, the only crack in her attitude toward the McMurray boys came when one of them was hurt. Then she was worse than any mother hen with a single chick.