Stacey Kayne - Mustang Wild

Skylar drew a deep breath and closed her eyes, releasing a stream of silent tears.

Looking at her now, she hardly resembled the woman full of confidence and sass who’d spent the day working his horses. Her wide, glistening eyes now stared into his.

“How long have you been standing there?” Her voice was warm, sultry, alluring.

Tucker’s gaze drifted across her face. Her skin looked as soft and pretty as a rosebud. And those lips…

He pinched his eyes shut. It would be wrong to make a pass at his new horse trainer; the woman he intended to unwed.

A woman who’s after my ranch.

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Dedicated to

My grandmothers—women of strength and courage

who’ve influenced my life.

Lyn Randal, my dear friend, contest rival, star sister and guardian angel.

My English teacher, Mr. Perez, whose praise of my writing fueled my courage to write a book.

My mom—I couldn’t have achieved this dream without your love, faith and support!

My mother-in-law, for being my friend, cheerleader and very first proofreader.

Evan Fogelman, for believing in my work, giving me confidence and keeping my spirits up.

My critique partners, Sheila Rae Z. Mohs, Renee Luke and Carla Hughes—who put up with my dyslexic jargle and help me find those missing words, while adding fun and friendship to my life.

My angel boys, for being the best kids ever—and for letting their mom hog the computer!

Last but not least, my hero, my husband, the man who has suffered through countless dinners out of a box and the untold amount of housework that is always on my to-do list. He never counted on his wife being a writer, but has adjusted well. You have to admire a man who can proudly announce, “My wife writes killer romance novels.” Love you!

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Epilogue

New Mexico Territory, 1880

S kylar Daines reined her Arabian stallion beside her younger brother and surveyed the ragged, canvas-topped structures wavering in the desert heat like an ugly mirage. As long as Chance Morgan was in the area, she didn’t care if the town of Black Dog was a row of outhouses.

Unfortunately, it didn’t appear far off from being just that.

Fear spiraled up from the pit of her stomach, sending a wave of shivers across her skin as she scanned the parallel cluster of makeshift buildings surrounded by miles of dry dirt, sand and sage. For such a small watering hole, a fair number of horses stood along the short strip of dirt, with more staked and hobbled on open ground.

“Sis, you sure that’s Black Dog? It don’t look like no place to find someone trustworthy.”

Straining for an encouraging smile, she met Garret’s gaze. “This is it,” she said in a steady tone, suddenly wishing her father’s maps weren’t so accurate. “Let’s see if anyone has heard of Chance Morgan.”

Garret’s hazel eyes narrowed, his features hardened, reminding Skylar of all the violence he’d been exposed to in his tender thirteen years.

“I don’t like it, Sky.” He shook his head, making no move to urge his horse forward.

She didn’t blame him. But they hadn’t come this far to fail. Her father’s last words had been to take Garret and the deed for their land in Wyoming to Black Dog and find Chance Morgan, her father’s business partner. They’d just spent a month traveling across a land as unforgiving as life itself. There’d been no time to ponder the grief weighing on her soul. Her guilt, on the other hand, hung around her neck like an iron yoke.

She wouldn’t fail Garret. She would get him safely to Wyoming. They’d reclaim their mustangs and have the home their father had promised them.

Fighting the tremble in her hands and an exhaustion she felt to the center of her bones, she reached over and tugged on the brim of Garret’s tan hat. “There’s no going back, little brother, and nothin’ to go back to. Pa said to find Morgan and that’s what we’re gonna do. We can’t make it clear to Wyoming without provisions. Pull out your rifle if it’ll make you feel better.”

Garret nodded and draped his long gun across his lap.

Praying there wouldn’t be any call for gunfire, she urged her black stallion forward, conscious of the sun beginning to sag in the western sky.

As she rode down the center strip of Black Dog, lively piano music carried into the street from a building occupying nearly the whole right side of town. The name Big Jack’s Saloon was whitewashed across its wood front. With not a soul in sight and every other establishment appearing deserted, she imagined Big Jack wasn’t low on customers.

Skylar dismounted and led her horse toward a hitching rail outside the saloon. A handsome red mare with light spots on its hindquarters was tethered a few feet away. Shifting her gaze from the large Appaloosa, she glanced at a set of double swinging doors. She’d never been inside such an establishment.

“Appaloosa,” said Garret. “Pretty one, too. At least we know Morgan has an eye for fine horseflesh.”

Skylar glanced up at her little brother as he reined his chestnut Arabian in beside her. “Why do you say that?”

“His name’s on his saddle,” answered Garret, still admiring the well-groomed mare.

Her eyes darted toward the horse’s tack. Bold as daylight, the letters M-O-R-G-A-N were pressed into the leather. “Well, knock me over with a feather.”

“If you’re as beat as I am, I probably could,” Garret retorted.

“Wait here. I won’t be but a few minutes.”

Clutching his gun in one hand, Garret jumped from his saddle and grabbed her by the arm as she turned toward the saloon. “Sky, you can’t go in there. Yer wearin’ a dress! I’ll go in and get Morgan.”

She shook his hand away from her elbow. Garret and her father had been reluctant to accept the fact, but at nineteen, there was no hiding that she was a woman, no matter what she wore. At the moment, she imagined her appearance was nothing short of obscene. The threadbare dress she’d found in her father’s saddlebags was made for a woman half her size. She’d never realized her mother had been such a dainty woman. The buttons strained between Skylar’s breasts were dangerously close to popping off. The blue calico skirt barely reached the top rim of her boots.

Her only shirt and pair of denims were so filthy, she hadn’t had much choice but to wear the dress. Her dusty, windblown hair hung just above her shoulders like dried grass.