To Tempt A Texan. Georgina Gentry

it was the only way she had. Better than that, she’d beaten that Blackie O’Neal at his own game. It made her smile to think about it. In the meantime, it upset her to look a mess and that she was driving a ridiculous rig with chicken feathers leaving a trail behind her. Lacey always perfectly planned everything and she had come to this. Thank God, nobody from home (especially Homer) was around to see her making a spectacle of herself.

      Resolutely, she kept driving. Her cat never stopped howling, nor did the chickens stop squawking. The afternoon was promising to be pure hell. The only thing that kept her going was the prize that awaited her when she got that deed registered. Well, there was something else. She grinned as she imagined the gambler showing up to drive the wagon only to discover he’d been outsmarted and out-maneuvered. If that rascal wanted to get to Guthrie, he’d have to walk and he was wearing boots. “Walk” was a dirty four-letter word to most Texans and in high-heeled cowboy boots, it would be painful. She hoped he got blisters on his blisters.

      She’d gone only about a mile when from behind she heard a loping horse, and a man’s deep voice yelled, “There she is!” She recognized that Texas drawl without even turning her head and whipped up her horse, but the rider was gaining. She glanced up as Blackie, riding double with some cowboy, galloped up and dismounted, running to grab her reins. “Of all the lowdown, dirty tricks!”

      Lacey stood up and slashed at him with her whip. Blackie grabbed it and jerked, Lacey lost her balance. The dog, scampering about and barking, ran behind Blackie, tripped him, and the gambler fell. Lacey tumbled out of the wagon, landing on top of him. The good-natured bloodhound promptly scampered up and licked her face with a long, wet tongue. The crates of chickens set up an ungodly squawking and feathers drifted. Precious meowed.

      The young cowboy leaned on his saddlehorn. “Mister, that’s no way to treat your wife.”

      “His wife?” She lay on Blackie and stared in horror into his grinning face. Now she regretted not keeping the hammer. Lacey managed to sit up and push the dog away. Before she could say anything else, that rascal was getting up, dusting himself off and turning on the charm to the cowboy. “Oh, it’s just a mistake. We had a little spat and she went off and left me, but everything’s fine now, isn’t it, sweetheart?”

      “Don’t call me sweetheart.” Lacey stumbled to her feet, dusting off her skirts. “You lowdown polecat.”

      “See?” Blackie grinned to the cowboy, “Isn’t she a typical Texas gal? Sweetheart, you shouldn’t have left me.”

      The cowboy looked uncertain and Lacey was suddenly afraid for him. If he attempted to interfere, she had no doubt the big Texan could wipe up the dirt with him. Blackie looked like he’d won many a saloon brawl.

      “Never mind, cowboy,” she said, “we’ll work this out ourselves. You can go.” As soon as he was out of sight, she intended to grab that whip, beat the Texan senseless, then take off with the wagon.

      “If you say so, ma’am.” The cowboy touched the brim of his hat with two fingers in a polite gesture, turned his horse and started back toward the nameless town. They both watched him go.

      When he was far enough away, Lacey made a sudden dive, grabbed the whip, and ran for the rig. Unfortunately, the good-natured hound galloped with her and she tripped and fell over him, landing sprawling in the dirt. “My word! This is outrageous!” Lacey scrambled to her feet and tried to climb up in the rig.

      “Meow!” protested Precious. The hound, discovering the cat, ran about the wagon barking which set both the cat and the chickens off again.

      “Hush, Lively! No, you don’t, sister!” The gambler grabbed at her and came away with a piece of her smudged shirtwaist, leaving her lace camisole showing. “You can’t outsmart me.”

      “You scoundrel!” She whacked at him with the little whip and he grabbed her again. They went to the ground in a tussle of flouncing petticoats and lace bloomers as they wrestled for the whip. The dog gamboled around them, eager to get in on this new game while the chickens squawked and the cat howled.

      “You little wildcat!” Blackie came up on top, lying on her full, soft breasts, his face only inches from hers. He was suddenly very aware of her warm flesh and how much of it was showing now. As he stared into her eyes, he realized just how pretty this female was. Well, she might be if her hair wasn’t so tangled and her face so smudged. He gave her his most disarming grin. “Now, honey,” he crooned, “maybe we can work something out. Maybe we could be partners.”

      She smiled back. “Oh, I didn’t realize how charming you were, and so handsome, too.”

      He relaxed, the overconfident Texas brute. He stood up and picked up his hat, dusted it off, put it on. Then smiled confidently as he offered her his hand. “Here, sister, let me help you up.”

      The big dope. She smiled and let him take her hand. As she came up off the ground, she gave him a solid knee to the groin, the way the cowboys had taught her to defend herself at her uncle’s ranch. He went down like a felled tree, groaning and thrashing in the dirt.

      “You oaf! How stupid can you get?” She made a run for the wagon and tripped over the barking dog, but scrambled up on the wagon seat and lashed the startled horse. The dog must have thought it was a new game because he ran along beside the wagon, barking and wagging his tail. The cat squalled and the chickens set up a bigger racket as she drove away. She glanced behind her, smiling with satisfaction. Men. They were hairy, flawed brutes who seemed to think with what hung between their legs. That was when they weren’t guzzling demon rum. Somewhere there must be a perfect, sensitive mate for her, but she sure hadn’t found him so far. That made her think of her wedding ceremony which had been so perfect right up until her ideal groom…She brushed that humiliating memory aside and concentrated on her driving. A few more miles and she’d be at the land office in Guthrie.

      Blackie was in a world of hurt, writhing on the ground. He finally managed to sit up and wiped the drops of sweat from his brow as the pain subsided. “That sneaky little—! She almost deprived a lot of eager women some future pleasure.”

      Pleasure. It would give him a great deal of pleasure to turn that sassy dame across his knee and paddle her until she was wailing as loud as that damned cat. She had outsmarted him and gotten away with the wagon. He almost had to admire her for her grit, but then Texas gals were always a cut above other women. If this had happened to another hombre, Blackie would have thought it was funny.

      For him, it wasn’t. It was hot and he was thirsty. He stumbled to his feet and stared up the road. The wagon had disappeared to the north in a cloud of dust and squawking chickens. Even his own dog, the traitor, had gone happily along with the girl.

      “Great God Almighty, Blackie, you let her outsmart you. You thought the prim old maid could be charmed and tempted like other women. You should have known better.”

      Well, he wouldn’t make that mistake again. He’d get to Guthrie somehow and contest her claim if she did manage to get it filed. That choice corner lot was too valuable to give up. Besides, he wasn’t about to have it breezed around town that Blackie O’Neal had been bested by a woman. He looked up and down the deserted road. Nothing in sight except a few chicken feathers blowing on the warm spring air.

      With a sigh, he started walking north. Walk. A dirty four-letter word to a Texan, especially in boots. “If man had been meant to walk, God wouldn’t have invented horses,” he muttered to himself and felt through his pockets for his cigarillos. They’d been all mashed and broken in the tussle. For a moment, he recalled the feel of her curvaceous body under his then remembered she’d outsmarted him. “Damn, my fine Havanas are ruined.”

      He stuck a broken cigar in his mouth, lit it, and shook out the match. He was nothing if not stubborn, and he’d always been one lucky hombre since he’d managed to escape that shack back in east Texas when he was a hungry, motherless kid. He wasn’t licked yet and he wasn’t gonna be, not by a lanky gal who was as independent as a hog on ice. Maybe her wagon would break an axle or her damned cat would escape and she’d stop to hunt it down. There were lots of things that could