Carol Arens - Wed To The Montana Cowboy

“Also none of your business.” She would have gladly carried on a pleasant conversation, telling him about how she had never fit in at home and did not wish to marry the butcher. And most of all, that she hoped to find the family link she had been missing.

She would have liked to pass the time becoming acquainted, but ever since he’d discovered who she was he’d been as sour as curdled milk.

“Anything to do with Moreland is my business.”

That was a telling statement. Either he was devoted to her grandfather or he dominated him.

“Are you related to Grandfather? Are we perhaps distant cousins?”

“We are not.”

That was a relief. She had no wish to be related to such a scowler.

“I really do need to stop for a few moments.”

“Later.”

“If you aim this wagon at one more bump in the path, Mr. Fount of Joy, things will get messy.”

It was a forward thing to say but she was desperate.

He hauled the team up short, leaped off, then stomped to her side of the wagon to help her down.

His hand under her elbow was firm, its strength and support not unpleasant as he helped her down. She wasn’t used to being in the presence of a man who was bigger than she was. The humbling fact was that she had never allowed a man to help her down from anything for fear that she would topple him.

As soon as her boot touched the ground he let go of her.

“Watch out for falling rocks,” he advised.

What a shame that such a handsome face was wasted on scowls.

“While I’m at it, I’ll be sure to sidestep snakes.”

Seeking a private spot, she lifted the hem of her skirt and hurried across the small green meadow. What a shame to step on the tiny flowers dotting the ground, but there were so many of them it was difficult not to.

There was a large, dense bush growing beside the water so she stepped behind it. Glancing up the side of the mountain she listened to the rush of the waterfall. If only it were possible to capture the melody with her violin.

Had her grandmother ever managed it? It broke her heart that she had not been able to meet her father’s mother. Sadly, the first time she had ever heard from her grandfather, was when he sent the violin after Grandmother’s passing. That had been three years ago.

Sometimes she could not help but wonder what her life would have been like if her mother had been respectable and her father not a rolling stone. Perhaps she would have grown up the apple...or at least the pineapple...of her grandparents’ eye.

The love of a parent was something she had missed as a child...and still did. It was her daily prayer that she would find something of that with her grandfather.

He’d given her Grandmother’s violin, an item that must be precious to him. Surely that indicated that he wanted a loving relationship, too.

Still, Aunt Eunice had warned that she was going to live with the devil and that he could not possibly be anything else, given that he had produced Rebecca’s father. But by that reasoning, it might be said that her grandfather could believe that Rebecca was a young woman of loose morals since that was what her mother had been.

That was certainly the first impression she had made on the grumpy Viking, and all because she had been sitting on a trunk lid.

Well, by George, she was here to find out what was truth and what was fear. For better or worse she was going to get to know her grandfather.

And why not? She had nothing to lose but everything to gain.

With her bladder finally relieved, she straightened her clothing and stepped out from behind the bush.

She had to take two quick steps backward to avoid trampling on a kitten. The water in the pond dampened her boots.

Oh, my, but it was a sweet-looking thing with its blue eyes and fuzzy, buff-colored fur.

Looking up, it meowed and swiped at her skirt.

“My goodness, you brave little thing.”

She squatted and reached her hand toward it. A rough, pink tongue licked her palm.

“Where’s your mama, little one?” She waggled her fingers. “You haven’t gotten lost...or become an orphan, I hope.”

That was entirely possible if this land was as untamed as folks said.

“Poor little lamb.”

The kitten nudged her finger with its pink nose. By the saints, one could hardly let the dear creature perish. Although if she took it with her, she couldn’t imagine what she would do with it when it was fully grown.

In spite of the fact that it looked as cuddly as a house cat, it was a pint-size cougar. Perhaps if it were raised with love from infancy, it would grow up tame.

On the other hand, it might turn one day and eat her.

All she did know was that here in the moment, there was a lost baby in need of mothering, and since she would never be a mother to a human, perhaps fate had given her a cub to care for.

Or maybe she was a fool and the cub’s mother was hidden in the trees ready to tear her to—

A shotgun blast rocked the tranquil meadow. Bits of tree bark fell on her hair. The kitten scurried into the brush.

Startled, she fell backward, rump-first, into the water.

The pool could only be a degree short of icing over. She shot to her feet, shivering and breathing in the scent of gunpowder.

Mr. Walker strode forward, his long, angry-looking strides convincing her that he had indeed come from Vikings...and history notwithstanding, not so long ago.

He snagged her about the waist and dragged her roughly across the meadow.

She had never been handled roughly by a man. The fact was, for good or ill, she had never been handled by a man at all.

It was odd. For all the power those large hands exerted dragging her toward the wagon, his touch caused her no pain. She would not be bruised.

For a spinster to feel the arms of a hulking male clamped about her middle...by glory, it was a thing to remember.

What a shame he was cursing in her ear.

He tossed her onto the wagon bed as though she weighed no more than Melinda did. She landed on a large bag of coffee beans, belly-first.

Why, the colossal nerve! Why, the—

Why did she suddenly feel so warm?

Anger, naturally, she deduced when her heart quit galloping like a horse outrunning a prairie fire.

In no way was it because she seemed caught in his intense blue gaze, unable to look away even though she ought to.

“Did you want me to have to explain to the old man that I let his tenderfoot granddaughter get mauled by a mountain lion?”

She scrambled to her knees. Frowning down at him, she swiped at her soaking bodice.

Mr. Walker bounded aboard the wagon in a single leap.

“Have you ever known anyone to be mauled by a kitten?”

“Where there’s a cub, there’s a mother cat.”

“Not this time. It was an orphan and you frightened the life out of it.”

“Reckon you didn’t notice that Mama was about to leap down on your head.”

“Surely not!” Shocked, her mouth sagged open. A shiver trembled through her, scalp to toe.

“Creeping across the branch over your head.”

She ought to say something in self-defense but she couldn’t imagine what.

“Hold on tight. That’s one angry predator.”

He cracked a whip in the air several inches over the team’s heads. The wagon jolted and she clutched the coffee bag to keep from tumbling backward.

The horses raced down the path. She glanced back.

The cougar followed for a short distance then turned back, probably to tend to her cowering baby.

Screech, his cage tucked between a bag of flour and a crate, fell off his perch, squawking in a panicked flash of green feathers.

* * *

Huddled beside the campfire and staring silently at the flames, Miss Moreland seemed to be contrite.