The Rustler by Linda Lael Miller

Author:Linda Lael Miller [Miller, Linda Lael]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Western, Historical, Romance
Publisher: HQN
Published: 2008-01-01T05:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER ELEVEN

WHERE THE HELL, Wyatt asked himself, as he rode alone down the ridge to take a closer look at the Henson place, was he going to get three hundred and fifty dollars? Or even the money to buy nails, lumber and tools to put the homestead back in working condition?

And those questions were only the first of many.

Rowdy and Sam were on their way back from Haven, where they’d been tracking not only murderous vigilantes, but Billy Justice and the rest of his gang. Rowdy was Wyatt’s favorite brother, and there had always been a deep bond between them, but if Rowdy had stumbled across the truth about that failed attempt at rustling, he wouldn’t hesitate to arrest him. Rowdy was that sort of man—he did everything to the fullest extent of his knowledge and ability, whether it was outlawing or keeping the peace. The badge he wore might have been a mere convenience to some folks, but it meant something to Rowdy, and he would stand behind it, in conscience and in action.

Wyatt grinned soberly at the thought, leaning back in the saddle a little as Sugarfoot navigated the steep descent. Rowdy had grit, and he had gumption, both of which were qualities Wyatt knew he too possessed, but he hadn’t used them in the same way.

He’d been a train robber, an intermittent cowpoke on various ranches all over the West, but he’d never built anything, never owned anything. Never chosen a way of life, planted his feet on a piece of ground, dug in his heels and held on. Much as he’d wanted a wife and family, it had always been a pipe dream, something he consoled himself with when he got lonesome, which was often. The woman in his flights of fancy had never had a face—she was a figure in a calico dress, albeit a shapely one, calling him in to supper after a day of hard work.

Now, she was Sarah Tamlin.

Reaching the dooryard of the old house, Wyatt felt fresh despair, a bittersweet desolation that ached in his very soul. How could he bring Sarah, a genuine lady used to all the better graces—pianos and china dishes and spare rooms—to live in a place like this?

With a sigh, he swung down out of the saddle and left Sugarfoot to graze untethered on a patch of overgrown grass by the well. The threshold of the house—more of a cabin, really—was low. Wyatt ducked his head to keep from bashing it against the door frame and stepped over.

He could see the sky through the gaps left by the fallen roof, most of which lay in the center of the cabin. Vermin scuttled through the wreck. One room, with a potbellied stove and a stone fireplace. The stove was rusted, the fireplace was crumbling. Like as not, there were birds and mice nesting in the chimney.

Wyatt added mortar to the list of things he couldn’t afford to buy.

He shoved a hand through his hair, trying to imagine Sarah there.

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