Mustang Annie by Rachelle Morgan Read Free Book Online Page B

prairie wind as she packed away her brush, then rested against the peeling trunk of the mesquite tree, her arm slung over one upraised knee. The odors of scorched coffee, burned beans and sweaty skin hovered in the cool evening air, as much companions to her as the packed ground beneath her bottom, the glitter of stars overhead, and the taste of grit on her tongue.
    A few feet away, Dogie and Flap Jack lay on their sides on their wool soogans, the cow chip campfire shedding light on the cards each held. Emilio sat closest to her against his saddle, and Wade Henry lay opposite them, in his hand a worn edition of the Good Book.
    Some things never changed. He’d had a Bible in his hand for as long as Annie could remember. Granddad once told her that Wade Henry had found religion after a job gone bad. A bullet shattered his thigh, and he’d nearly bled out before they got him to a doc. According to Clovis James, Henry had made a bargain with the Almighty: let him live, and he’d never rustle another horse. The Lord lived up to his end of the deal, and so, apparently, had Wade Henry.
    As for Corrigan, Annie had no idea where he’d disappeared off to. Nor, she told herself as she closed her eyes, did she care. The farther she stayed away from him the better. She didn’t know how much he knew about her or her past, but the man asked too many questions. Worse, he was too shrewd. If he didn’t have suspicions already, he would before long. Annie hoped she could track down and catch his horses before U.S. Marshals picked up her trail, and he learned the truth of why she’d left Nevada.
    At the rate they were traveling, that didn’t look too promising.
    He’d surprised her today, though, she’d give him that. She wouldn’t have thought he’d last an hour in the saddle, much less ten. Hell, he wore silk vests and drank bourbon. Even his horses were high class. Why would a man whose tastes ran toward the more refined go through all this trouble for a rangy mustang?
    No, she didn’t want to know. Corrigan’s reasons were none of her concern. As long as he stuck to his end of their bargain, there’d be no problem. This job would be over soon. When the money she earned ran out, she’d move on to the next job and load up her pockets again.
    Yeah, the next job, she thought with unaccustomed bleakness. The next bronc. The next dollar. The next sunrise. One of these days she might get lucky enough to see an end to it all.
    The sharp crack of Dogie’s name sliced through Emilio’s rendition of “Laredo.” Annie opened her eyes and sought out the source. On the fringe of the campfire’s glow, Corrigan stood beside the first horse in the string, his hand on the animal’s forelock.
    Dogie glanced in his boss’s direction, then quickly at the men. From their shrugs, none had any more idea of what had riled their boss than he did. Dogie dropped his cards face down, rolled to his feet, hitched his droopy britches, and swaggered with false courage toward his boss.
    â€œWhat burr got under his saddle?” she asked Wade Henry.
    He glanced briefly toward the remuda, then returned his attention to his reading. “Nothin’ to worry your perty head about. Ace is just bein’ Ace, is all.”
    Flap Jack drew a card from the deck. “The boy’s probably just gettin’ his hide chewed a bit.”
    That was obvious, but for what? Corrigan couldn’t be finding fault with the way Dogie took care of the horses; he cared for them as tenderly as a mother with a new babe.
    Then again, what concern was it of hers? If Corrigan felt there was cause to upbraid the boy, that was between the two of them.
    â€œHow long do you think it will take to track down the horses, Miss Annie?” Flap Jack asked. For such a giant, deep-chested man, he had an incongruously mellow voice.
    â€œTracking them down won’t be the hard part,” she told him.