To Tempt A Texan. Georgina Gentry

land claim.

      So untidy, but she would change all that. Yes, she would. Emboldened by new resolve, Lacey hung on to the cowcatcher as it chugged along the track. Yes, she would help change this pitiful settlement into a perfect town for the Ladies’ Temperance Association to populate. They’d made no mistake when they’d elected her president.

      The train was slowing now as it neared the scattering of tents and hurrying people. Up here on the cowcatcher, she’d be first off the crowded train, a distinct advantage in staking a claim to a choice lot for her newspaper, the Crusader. She clasped her wooden stake and hammer tightly and searched the horizon, trying to choose a lot before the train chugged to a halt.

      Ah, yes, there was a choice corner lot in the center of this nameless settlement. It would be a perfect place to build her newspaper office. Even before the train came to a complete stop, Lacey hiked up her skirts, jumped off the cowcatcher and ran as fast as her long legs could carry her.

      Galloping into town on his fine, chestnut stallion, with his bloodhound, Lively, following behind, gambler Blackie O’Neal’s dark gaze searched the town site for the perfect location for the big saloon and bordello he planned to build here. Ah, up ahead lay a prize corner lot right downtown. It would be an excellent site for Blackie’s Black Garter. Out of the corner of his eye as he rode, Blackie saw a train chugging into town. Great God Almighty, he had to beat that train. It would be full of eager settlers racing to stake claims. He urged his lathered horse to run faster.

      What was that ridiculous sight? A woman, yes, it was a woman clinging to the cowcatcher of that locomotive. Was she loco? All he could see was wildly blowing dark hair, billowing skirts, and white lace bloomers. At that moment, his horse stumbled and fell, throwing Blackie into the dirt. Lively loped up and licked his face.

      Cursing, Blackie scrambled to his feet, grabbed up his wooden claim stake, checked to make sure his horse was okay, then began to run. The woman was off the cowcatcher now, holding her skirts high as she ran. What did that crazy female thinking she was doing? Her husband must be loco to put up with a damn fool like that.

      Abruptly Blackie realized the woman was running toward the same lot he was. Surely she wasn’t going to stake a claim? He realized as he ran that that’s exactly what she was planning to do and on his lot. He renewed his speed, but he was out of shape and puffing. Cigars and late-night card games did nothing to improve one’s athletic ability, and it had been awhile since he’d worked a ranch. But he was a Texan. Surely he could outrun a woman.

      They met in the middle of the prize lot at a dead heat, she looking as surprised as he felt.

      “No, you don’t, sister, this is my claim!”

      “No, it’s mine, you cheap tinhorn!” Lacey glared back at the tall, broad-shouldered man and began to pound her stake in the ground. After risking her life to get this free land, she wasn’t about to be bluffed out of it by some arrogant rascal.

      He muttered a curse and began to pound his own stake into the dirt with the butt of his six-shooter. “Listen, sister, I’ve got big plans for this lot.”

      “So do I, and I’m not about to give it up.” She wiped her hands on her dusty dark skirt and glared up at him. She was tall for a woman, but he was taller by more than a head, and some women might think him handsome. He paused now, put one dirty black boot up on his stake and tipped his Stetson hat back.

      He frowned at her, a masculine and suntanned brute of a man as he lit a cigarillo. “What does a gal need a lot for? Your husband not providin’ for you?” A Texas drawl. She might have known.

      Lacey glared back. He was a rogue, she was sure of it by the way he dressed. The flat black hat, the string tie, the bright silk vest and a diamond ring on his little finger. “I am not married,” she replied with ice in her voice. “Now get off my claim, you cheap tinhorn.”

      He shook the match out and took a puff. “Listen, sister—”

      “I am not your sister, thank God.”

      He grinned at her with easy charm. She knew his type immediately. God’s gift to women. Or so he thought. “I tell you what I’ll do, sweetheart—”

      “I’m not your sweetheart, either.” She didn’t budge an inch as he grinned and smoked.

      “Well, hell, you’re certainly no lady, comin’ in like that with your skirts blowin’ and your underpants showin’—”

      “A gentleman would not mention that.” My word, she must look a mess, but there was no mirror to check, although she did make a vain effort to push her hair back. “Don’t try to sweet-talk me, you rattlesnake.”

      He grinned in that superior way that made her want to smack him. “Sister, I never claimed to be a gentleman. Now I know it’s futile to talk reason with a female, but I reckon the little millinery shop or bakery you’re plannin’ could just as easily be built on some side street—”

      “You arrogant pig, I intend to build a newspaper right here on this land.”

      “A newspaper? You?” He looked baffled.

      She took a deep breath, proud of herself that she didn’t hit him with her hammer. It would be so undignified to be arrested right here on Main Street. Okay, so some women might think him attractive, but he wasn’t perfect. His ears were a bit too big and he had one slightly crooked front tooth. “My word, you can read, can’t you? I’ll bet the only reading you ever do is a deck of marked cards.”

      Blackie felt himself flush and took a deep breath as he holstered his pistol. Her accent told him she was a Texan, too. This dusty, untidy mess of a gal was the most stubborn, annoying female he’d ever met. He had a strong male urge to yank her up and spank her backside, but he knew that to win this fuss, he must hold his temper and use his charm. Women told him he could talk a dog off a meat wagon. Would it work for a Texas bitch?

      He smiled at her, thinking she wasn’t bad looking for a woman, although it was hard to tell with that dark hair a tangled mop and her face smudged by smoke from the train that was now pulling out. “We’ve gotten off to a bad start here, Miss.” He took off his hat and made a sweeping bow. “I am Blackie O’Neal, lately of Del Rio, and you are?”

      “None of your business.” The girl snapped back. “Don’t waste your sleazy charm on me. If you were a gentleman, you’d let me have the claim.”

      He started to tell her again that she was no lady, not when she rode into town on the cowcatcher of a train with her skirts billowing and her bloomers showing. Since she was a Texan, that meant she might be as stubborn as he was himself. “Suppose I go look after my horse, Miss, and then I’ll buy you some dinner and we’ll talk about this.”

      She shook her head. “I don’t think so.”

      Well, damn. Even though she looked like she’d been ridden hard and put up wet, she still had full, round curves and she might be pretty under all that soot. If he could get a few drinks in her and an hour to sweet-talk her, he’d not only get the land, he’d enjoy an hour’s entertainment besides. “Perhaps I could buy your claim from you.”

      “What if I buy your claim from you?”

      “No. I need that land worse than you do.” He was out of patience and very hot and tired. This gal was different, and he didn’t like it. He was used to getting his way with women. This one was not only savvy, she was too smart. Blackie didn’t like smart women, he liked eager ones. “All right, sister, we seem to be in a Mexican standoff. So now what do we do?”

      In answer, she hailed a passing settler. “Hey, Mister, how do I legalize this claim?”

      “My claim,” Blackie corrected, but she paid him no heed.

      The settler was a worn old farmer. He took off his straw hat and wiped his sweaty brow. “No land office here.” He pointed north. “Got to go up to Guthrie to register your claim.”

      “Guthrie?” The girl said, “how far is that?”