Charlene Sands - A Cowboy Worth Claiming

It was the reason Grandpa sent him that letter. Had to be. Her gramps had told her the tale of the orphan boy whose life he saved and how the boy had clung on, fighting for his life, refusing to give up the one thing he had left of value. The robbers would have beaten him to death if her grandfather hadn’t been riding the back roads in Channing and heard the confrontation. Chance Worth owed her grandpa his life.

Good Lord, she thought, squeezing her eyes closed. Had that been the trade-off, he’d repay his debt by marrying her?

For the past year, her grandfather had been matchmaking, inviting every eligible young man in the territory to the ranch. Not that she’d gotten a single proposal. And that’s how it would stay. Still, she smarted from the stranger’s outright amusement when she’d refused to marry him.

Your grandfather’s got more sense than that. The man’s declaration after his laughter had died down made her stomach knot.

Lizzie wasn’t a beauty. She wasn’t graceful or poised like the other females in town. She wasn’t buxom or curvy. She looked younger than her eighteen years. She knew that she’d rightly die a spinster one day, but that didn’t give the stranger call to rub her nose in it. Embarrass and offend her.

Hurt her.

She had a mind to retaliate with harsh words, but she’d gotten an eyeful of the cowboy, stripped naked from the waist up, after he’d pulled her out of the lake. She couldn’t say that his jaw was chiseled a little too deep. Or his shoulders were spread a little too broad. Or the muscles that bulged on his arms were too darn big. If Lizzie was one thing, she was honest. Her rescuer with deep brown eyes and golden skin was about as perfect as one man had a right to be.

And thinking him perfect after the insult he’d bestowed upon her just made her angry.

“How is Edward?” he asked, his voice soft against her ear.

A tingle trailed down her neck. She willed it to stop and concentrated on the question. Her body’s response to this man annoyed her. “He’s struggling some, but we’ll make do. We always do.”

“Struggling?” he asked.

“Some.”

“You care to elaborate.”

“Isn’t your business, is it, Mr. Worth?”

“Hmm, if I had to guess, I’d say having a stubborn, sass-mouthed granddaughter would make just about any man struggle.”

She spun around so fast, her damp hair whipped at her cheekbones. “That’s not fair! You don’t know what we’ve been through. Cattle rustlers, drought that starved our herd two years ago, disease that came later. We’ve worked hard to keep the ranch from drying up, to keep food on the table and clothes on our backs. My grandpa would throw you off his property, hearing you speak that way to me.”

His lips twitched. “That so?”

She glared into mud-brown eyes lit with amusement. He wasn’t really perfect after all, she decided.

“Turn around, before you fall off.” His voice firm, he scolded her like a child. He wasn’t that much older than her. Couldn’t be more than ten years that separated them.

“I’m not going to fall off. I’ve been riding since before I could walk. I could outride any of the boys in town. And I—”

He clucked his tongue and the sorrel took off in a fast trot. Lizzie bounced up and her world tilted to the left. She began falling at an angle, her body hinged sideways. She was on a collision course with a prickly blade of saguaro cactus before a big hand pulled her upright to safety. Chance set both hands firm on her shoulders and turned her to face forward on the saddle.

“You did that on purpose.” She bristled.

He slowed Joyful to an easy gait. “You got a vivid imagination, Lizzie.”

“Elizabeth.”

“I think I liked you better in the lake.”

“When you thought I was drowning?”

“When you were quiet.”

“You’re the one asking questions.”

“And you’ve given such ladylike answers.”

She whipped around again, showing him the point of her chin.

“For pity’s sake, turn around and stay put.” His voice held no patience. “You’re tiring yourself out.”

Leather creaked as she took her time twisting back in the saddle.

And just like that, he pulled her closer, his hand splaying over her stomach, his fingers teasing the underside of her breasts. She’d never had a man hold her so tight, in such a way. She held her breath. A warm thrill coursed down past her waist. Her breasts, small as they were, tingled. “W-what are you doing?”

He didn’t answer. His iron grip said it all.

Lizzie sighed. She’d made a mess of things for certain. She’d been a fool, though she wouldn’t admit it to the man whose knees cradled her. She’d been so eager to deliver her dolls and collect the money owed her, that she’d taken the shortcut, across the lake, rather than walking the extra two miles to town. She should’ve been more careful with her dolls, more cautious about that rickety ole boat. Now, she had nothing to show for one month’s solid work. They had little cash left and were overextended on loans from the feed store and the mercantile. Her grandfather hadn’t said as much, Edward Mitchell being a proud man and all, but he’d been relying on that cash to buy supplies in town.

Elizabeth’s folly let him down.

Tears she’d held back, threatened again. She wouldn’t let the stranger see her cry. She squared her shoulders and took a deep breath.

“You’re tensing up again. Just lean against me and be still, Lizzie.”

It was fruitless fighting him. And he was right. She was fatigued. More than she’d thought. And now he offered her his chest to lean back against. No harm in that, she thought, as the relentless sun spilled down. The heat burning through her wet clothes warmed her chilled body and soothed her sour mood.

* * *

A majestic view of crimson hills jutting up against a blue sky gave Chance pause as he neared the Mitchell spread. Rocky peak formations appearing close enough to touch created instant patterns in his mind. The one directly in front of him seemed to spread out like a soaring eagle in flight, the formation to his left was shaped like a tall bowler hat, the kind a gentleman from the East would wear, and the crest of another mountaintop off in the distance looked like a tipped coffeepot. The sun played with the deep earth hues of those mountain peaks, illuminating Mother Nature’s most fascinating ornaments in blazing light.

In a clearing not far away sat the sorely neglected Mitchell Ranch, its rundown appearance a direct contrast to the majesty of the Red Ridge Mountains. Chance pressed Joyful on, taking in broken fences along the border, barn walls in disrepair and the house itself, which was no more than a small wood cabin.

The girl had fallen asleep against him. Her head was tucked under his chin, her lithe body cradled in his arms with her skirts draped down the mare’s sides. She was a little thing, to be sure, but feisty as hell.

Chance grinned thinking about her mighty tirade. Marry her? Edward Mitchell could find a dozen better suitors for his granddaughter than him. Chance wasn’t anybody’s ideal and he certainly wasn’t the settling-down kind. Edward knew Chance had no dreams of a wife and family. Life had knocked Chance down too many times for thinking like that. No, that wasn’t why Edward Mitchell had summoned him.

He spoke in Lizzie’s ear. “Wake up, Princess. You’re home.” Lizzie jerked back when she heard his voice. The back of her head met with his chin. “Ow!”

Nobody’d call her graceful.

She straightened and gazed at her home with trepidation.

He dismounted first and reached up for her. In less than an hour, he’d had more contact with this gal than any other female in a month of Sundays. He’d had lifelong practice keeping away from Marissa Dunston, the young daughter of Alistair’s new wife. Marissa had been a troublemaker from the time she’d come to live at the Circle D Ranch. Chance wasn’t about to get stupid now. Not with Edward Mitchell’s granddaughter, that’s for damn sure.