Wyoming Woman. Elizabeth Lane

gravel with a force that threatened to snap the axle, but, miraculously, the buggy held the road.

      Hat gone, hair flying, Rachel gripped the reins and braced her feet for the final curve. It would be all right, she told herself. The grade was already leveling off, and her speed was slowing. She and the accursed mule were going to make it. Two hours from now she would be home, regaling her family with the story of her wild ride.

      She was in position for the turn when the wheels hit a sudden dip. Launched upward, the buggy became airborne for a heart-stopping instant. Then it hit the road with a jolt that Rachel felt to the roots of her teeth. The impact lifted her inches off the seat, but she clung doggedly to the reins. This wasn’t her day to die! She had too much living left to do. Too many pictures to paint, too many horses to break, cattle to brand and people to love! She’d be damned if she was going to let go now!

      Hanging on with every last ounce of strength, she wrestled the buggy around the last curve. The vehicle rocked dangerously, then, counterbalanced by Rachel’s own weight, settled back onto four wheels. Rachel felt herself begin to breathe again. She had made it down the hill in one piece. She was going to be all right.

      Then she saw them.

      Sheep.

      They spread like a lumpy white flood across the road, a scant seventy yards ahead of her. There were hundreds of them—ewes and rams, plump with un-shorn wool, and tiny lambs scampering among their legs. She could hear their piercing bleats, hear the clanging of their bells as they ambled along with their noses in the dust, so bland and stupid that they didn’t even have enough sense to get out of her way.

      She was going to plow right into the herd.

      Frantic, Rachel jerked the reins and shouted at the top of her lungs, but the sound that emerged from her mouth was lost amid the bleating of the sheep. The brainless creatures did not even raise their heads. What in heaven’s name were they doing here anyway? Where was their herder?

      She flung her weight backward in the desperate hope that the mule would stop. But the buggy kept moving, like a reaper headed into a stand of wheat. It would mow down the sheep, leaving a swath of dead and injured animals until the resistance of their bodies finally stopped its motion.

      There was only one thing she could do, and, with time ticking down to a split second, Rachel did it.

      Wrenching the reins to the right, she swerved off the road. The mule was ripping along in a blind panic now. There was no time to choose a good spot or even to look where she was going. The buggy lurched over clumps of sage, bounded off a saddle-sized rock and careened down the side of a wash. The mule screamed and pitched onto its side as the buggy rolled, scattering trunks and boxes and throwing Rachel forward, over the dash. Like a rag doll tossed by an uncaring child, she tumbled onto the sand, moaned and lay still.

      Luke Vincente heard his dogs barking as he came over the rise. The sound put him on instant alert. The two Scotch border collies tended to work the sheep quietly, uttering soft little yips as they worried the flanks of the stragglers. The clamor he heard now could have only one meaning—something was wrong.

      Luke’s eyes scanned the herd as he urged the rangy buckskin gelding down the slope. The sheep were ambling along at their usual pace, showing no sign that anything was amiss. But Luke could not see either of the dogs. Maybe they’d cornered a badger or come across a den of coyote pups. Or maybe they’d even found a rattler. A snake-bit dog was the last thing he wanted.

      A shallow wash, etched by spring floods, cut down the side of the hill and zigzagged across the flat. That would be where the dogs were, Luke calculated. Otherwise he’d be able to see them. Anxious now, he spurred the buckskin to a trot.

      Luke had come to Wyoming seeking the peace and solitude of open spaces. But he’d had enough trouble here to last him the rest of his life, especially in the past few weeks. Just this morning Luke had found three of his best purebred merino ewes shot dead around a watering hole. The cattlemen who’d done it hadn’t even bothered to hide their tracks. Why should they, when the law turned a blind eye to any crime committed against people who raised sheep?

      But that wasn’t the worst of it. Three nights ago, his best herder, an old Spaniard who wouldn’t hurt a fly, had narrowly escaped death when masked raiders had torched the sheep wagon where he slept. When the old man had stumbled outside, the masked men had beaten him to a bloody pulp and left him for dead.

      Luke had no doubt that the raiders had come from neighboring ranches whose owners wanted him, his sheep and his herders off the open range. The fact that they had every right to be there only made the cattlemen more determined to drive him off.

      Luke had had a bellyful of trouble over the past week. He could only hope he wasn’t about to stumble into more.

      The barking grew louder as he neared the wash. Now, through the tall sage, he could see a stark, black shape jutting above the rim. Luke swore under his breath as he realized what it was. What kind of damned fool would drive a buggy fast enough to run it off the road in this country?

      His heart sank as he realized he was about to find out.

      Luke swung out of the saddle and looped the buckskin’s reins over a dead cedar bush. As he strode down into the wash the dogs bounded out from behind the buggy to greet him, their tongues lolling, their feathery black-and-white tails wagging, as if to say, “Look what we’ve found!”

      With a low whistle and a swift hand sign that the dogs had been trained to obey, Luke sent them back to tend the herd. As they frisked up the slope of the wash, he turned and walked cautiously toward the buggy.

      Its front wheels were buried axle deep in sand. One rear wheel, tipped clear of the ground, was still spinning. Either the wind was playing tricks, or the accident had only just happened.

      He looked for a horse or mule, but found only the broken traces and a set of large, shod hoofprints leading up the side of the wash. Judging from the trail it had left, the animal wasn’t badly hurt. Luke hoped the driver of the buggy had been as fortunate, but as he gazed at the wreckage, he knew that wasn’t likely.

      The buggy had been going fast when it shot over the edge of the wash, he surmised. Fast enough, most likely, to throw the driver over the dash and break his fool neck, or maybe smash his head on a rock. Either way, he wasn’t going to be a pretty sight.

      Luke was a half-dozen paces from the buggy when a flicker of movement beyond the far side of it caught his eye. Something was blowing in the wind—something white and lacy that looked like a petticoat. And he could see now that the debris scattered around the wreck included two hat boxes and a trunk that had burst open on impact and bounced down the wash, spilling a trail of frilly undergarments along its sandy bed.

      Luke swore out loud. It was bad enough that the driver had endangered himself. That he’d been driving like a lunatic with a woman aboard was more than stupid. It was downright criminal.

      As he sprinted around the buggy, Luke caught sight of crumpled petticoats and a fluttering blue skirt. For an instant he hoped it might be a heap of clothing. But the sleek little high-button boots thrusting from beneath a ruffle of ecru lace told him otherwise.

      She lay on her back, amber curls spilling like a tangled skein of silk embroidery floss over the rocky gray sand. Her eyes were closed, the lashes like the soft, dark vane of a quail’s feather against ivory cheeks. Her features were as perfect as a doll’s, her periwinkle-blue traveling suit so well-tailored and immaculate that she looked as if she had just been lifted out of a tissue-lined box before being flung onto the ground.

      She was somebody’s rich, spoiled baby, that was for sure. The same kind of rich, spoiled baby who’d cost him four precious years of his life.

      Her breasts were small and taut beneath the snug-fitting jacket. Their even rise and fall confirmed that she was breathing. A touch of his fingertip to her warm throat told Luke her pulse was strong and steady. His first impulse was to lift her head and try to get some water down her. But she could have fractured bones or even a broken neck, he cautioned himself. It would be best not to move her until she could