The Ranger's Woman. Carol FinchЧитать онлайн книгу.
“In case you haven’t heard it is not considered good manners to smoke in front of women,” she pointed out.
Undaunted, he took another draw on the cigar, then blew smoke rings that drifted toward her. She swallowed a chuckle when he tossed her a defiant smile. Having a man challenge her rather than fawn and pamper her was a refreshing change.
However, she had to remain in character. It wouldn’t do to let the ornery gambler know that he amused her. Her whole objective was to make sure he wanted very little association with her.
Determined to be as cantankerous as he was, she shot out her hand to grab his cheroot. After she tossed it out the window she waited to see how he would react.
He glared at her. No surprise there.
“That was an expensive cheroot,” he muttered at her.
“And you were being purposely rude. Now we’re even.” She nudged the calf of his right leg with the heel of her shoe. “And move your feet, please. I will not stay cramped for hours because you refuse to stay in your half of the space.”
Grudgingly, her companion shifted his shoulder against the corner of the seat and stretched his legs diagonally to grant her a fraction more space.
“Thank you,” she said aloofly.
“Please tell me that you’re getting off at the next stage stop,” he grumbled.
“Ah, that I could be so lucky.” She made a big production of flicking imaginary ashes off her sleeve. “But no. I’m bound for Fort Davis.”
The news didn’t appear to please him. He just kept staring intently at her.
“And you, sonny? Where are you headed?” she asked, hoping to divert his attention so he would stop evaluating her so closely.
His massive shoulders lifted and dropped lackadaisically. “Haven’t decided. I’ll stop for a drink and a game of poker whenever the mood strikes.”
She studied him for a long moment. “Do you find it rewarding to live a life of no obligations or commitments, drifting from one dusty frontier town to the next?”
He flashed her an one-eyed squint. “It’s a living.”
When he narrowed those unnerving amber eyes at her, she resolved to let him know she intended to stand her ground and that she was not a woman who could be pushed around or easily intimidated.
Having been raised in polite society, constantly told to guard her tongue and to cater to the powerful and elite, she found it amazingly gratifying using her disguise as a curmudgeon to speak her mind. And she had learned the knack from the best, she reminded herself. In fact, her former instructor at finishing school was the inspiration for her disguise and her imperious demeanor. The old battle-ax had given Piper fits for years.
“Gambling is not much of a living, as I see it,” she replied. “Fleecing folks for profit is hardly what I would call respectable. A man should strive to make something of himself, not squander his life on cigars, card games and loose women.”
“This is going to be a helluva long ride through rough country, lady,” he told her gruffly. “Try to keep your nagging and lectures to a minimum because you’re liable to tick me off.”
“I thought I already had,” she said, biting back a mischievous snicker.
“Trust me, that’s the very last thing you should want to do, especially since this stretch of road has been plagued by outlaws. I might not be inclined to defend your honor if I’m so fed up with you that I’m ready to let the thieves have right at you.”
She chuckled from behind her dark veil. “If you are trying to frighten me into submission then you have wasted your breath. At my advanced age, I do not feel the need to kowtow to anyone, you and prospective desperadoes included.”
She poked the end of her cane into his sternum, pushing him back against the seat. “Trust me, mister, you don’t want to get on my bad side, either.”
He stared at the black cane that poked his chest. “You have a good side?”
“Not much left of it these days,” she said, then resettled her cane beside her.
“Not much left of mine, either, so don’t push it.”
He grabbed the hat beside his hip and pulled it low on his forehead. He closed those penetrating amber eyes that reminded her of a mountain lion’s.
Piper smiled in satisfaction when the gambler settled in for what she supposed was a nap. But he didn’t fool her into thinking that he was sleeping. No doubt, this pantherlike man was merely lying in wait.
Shifting sideways, Piper struck the same pose as the gambler and tried to catch a much-needed nap to soothe her churning stomach. The monotony of the overland trip was wearing her down. She wanted nothing more than to be reunited with her sister, Penelope, at Fort Davis, without losing the money and valuables she carried to make her new start in life. Learning that this area was crawling with thieves did nothing to reassure her.
The thought prompted Piper to push her reticule protectively beneath her hip before she closed her eyes and nodded off.
From beneath half-mast eyelids Quinn Callahan appraised the crotchety old hag who had finally dozed off. She was swathed in yards of black fabric, her head and face concealed behind an oversize plumed hat that was draped with a heavy veil. He could easily imagine what the witch looked like—beady eyes, hooked nose and pointy chin. And plump as a grain-fed old hen.
Yet, there was something about the way she moved, the way she held herself, that didn’t quite ring true. But Quinn reminded himself that he was cautious and suspicious by nature—and habit. It was difficult to grasp what there was about her that niggled him because he was too busy countering her taunting comments.
Which made him wonder if she was doing it to distract him. From what? He wasn’t sure. But every time he stared overly long at her she dreamed up something to say that dragged his attention away from the way she looked and forced him to concentrate on her challenging remarks.
And then there was her grating, nasal voice that sounded so unpleasant to his ears. If he didn’t know better he would swear she was purposely trying to alienate him. Just why was that? He didn’t know the answer to that, either.
One thing that didn’t escape his attention was how she had tucked her beaded purse protectively beside her after he mentioned the possibility of encountering outlaws. He was willing to bet she was carrying a great deal of money that would make her ripe for the picking.
Well, it didn’t matter what this persnickety—and obviously wealthy—old widow was up to, Quinn told himself. He was a man on a mission. He had volunteered to pose as a shiftless gambler who boasted about his recent winnings to every stage agent and employee he met along the route from Fort Stockton.
And Quinn would bet his life savings that the gang he was after—that spoke in code and referred to themselves as the Knights of the Golden Circle—had spies working for the stage line.
That was the only logical explanation for the accurate targeting of passengers who carried valuables and cash.
Quinn had made the same monotonous ride back and forth to El Paso three times in the last two weeks, and had gained nothing for his exhausting efforts. Tired, impatient and cranky though he was, he vowed to make this trip a dozen more times, if need be. He wouldn’t rest until he encountered the ruthless outlaws that had killed the one true friend he’d ever had. The attack had taken place six months earlier in a secluded canyon near Catoosa Gulch. He was going to become bait for the thieves so he could track them to their remote hideout.
His thoughts trailed off when the coach hit a deep rut and catapulted him against the ceiling. He braced himself as he watched the old woman tumble willy-nilly off the seat. She let loose with a shrill squawk when she sprawled atop his legs.
When he reached down to