The Wrong Cowboy. Lauri Robinson

      Weston scurried away and Marie glanced toward the wagon, prepared to ask if any of the other children needed to relieve themselves.

      “If anyone else has to go, do it now,” a male voice demanded harshly.

      Spinning about, she eyed him. “I was about to suggest that, Mr. Burleson.”

      He folded his arms across his chest. “Were you?”

      “Yes, I was.” Arguing in front of the children should be avoided at all measures, so she took a deep breath and turned, poking her head over the end gate. “Does anyone else need to join Weston?”

      Five little heads, those she’d protect with her life, gestured negatively. The quivering of Charlie’s bottom lip had Marie’s ire flaming. Whirling round, she grabbed one solid arm and dragged Mr. Burleson a few feet away from the wagon. “I will not have you intimidating these children.”

      “You will not—”

      “That’s right,” she interrupted. “I will not permit you to speak to them so. There is no need for you to use that tone of voice around them. They are small children and—”

      “Where the hell did you come from lady?” Stafford interrupted. One minute she was shaking like a rabbit and the next she was snapping like a cornered she-wolf— demanding things. Their luggage took up one entire freight wagon, leaving him no choice but to buy a second one this morning that included some kind of covering to keep the children out of the sun. It was now well past noon, and at the rate they were traveling it would take three days to get home. If he was lucky.

      “There’s no reason to curse. You know perfectly well the children and I are from Chicago,” she said, pert little nose stuck skyward again.

      Stafford shook his head. Didn’t anyone know a rhetorical question when they heard one?

      “Get that kid in the wagon,” he barked, walking toward the team. Mick was going to owe him so much he might as well sign over his half of the ranch the moment he rode in. Dealing with Miss Marie Hall and her brood was costing more than money. Stafford’s sanity was at stake.

      August was the hottest month of the year, and here he was traipsing across the countryside with a wagonload of kids and the haughtiest woman he’d ever met.

      If he’d been thinking, he’d have hired another man to drive this rig and ridden Stamper, his horse, back to the ranch.

      The wagon seat listed as Marie climbed up the side of the rig with about as much grace as a chicken trying to fly. So be it. He’d offered his assistance once—back in town—and wouldn’t do that again. He’d never been a slow learner.

      Eventually, she got herself hoisted up and Stafford had to clench his hands into fists to keep from setting the team moving before she got herself situated on the seat. He’d have gotten a chuckle out of watching her flail about, but he wasn’t in a chuckling mood.

      “We may proceed now, Mr. Burleson.”

      “You don’t say,” he drawled, simply because he had to say something. Her uppity attitude had him wanting to show her just who was in charge.

      Him.

      Stafford snapped the reins and let the horses set a steady pace forward. The trail was relatively smooth and driving the rig didn’t take much concentration or effort. Anyone could do it.

      “You know how to drive a team?” he asked.

      She didn’t glance his way, just kept her snooty little face forward. “Of course not. I am a nursemaid, not a teamster.”

      It had probably been a bad idea anyway. He just wanted to be anywhere but here right now. She was like every other woman he’d ever known, with a way of making a man feel obligated to be at her beck and call. He’d given up on that years ago and didn’t want to go back.

      “A nursemaid?” he asked, when his mind shifted. “I thought you were a mail-order bride.”

      Her sigh held weight. “A person can be two things at once.”

      “That they can,” he agreed. Snooty and persnickety.

      A cold glare from those brown eyes settled on him, telling him she knew he was thinking unkind thoughts about her, and he couldn’t help but grin. Let her know she was right. He even added a little wink for good measure.

      Huffing, she snapped her gaze forward again.

      Darn close to laughing, Stafford asked, “So how’d you and Mick meet?” The ranch was still a long way off and he might as well use the time to gather a bit more information. If she and Mick had corresponded, and if she had sent Mick a picture of herself, Mick would have waved it like a flag. Therefore, Stafford was convinced there had been no picture sharing. He also knew he’d need all the ammunition he could get once Mick saw her. Even as testy as a cornered cat, Marie Hall was a looker. Her profile reminded him of a charcoal silhouette, drawn, framed and hung on a wall to entice onlookers to imagine who the mysterious woman might be.

      Not that he was enticed. He knew enough not to be drawn in by the graceful arch of her chin or how her lashes looked an inch long as she stared straight ahead.

      After another weighty sigh, she said, “Mr. Wagner and I have not officially met, yet.”

      “Lucky man,” Stafford mumbled, trying to override the direction his thoughts wanted to go.

      An owl couldn’t snap its neck as fast as she could, and he was saved from whatever she’d been going to say when one of the kids—he couldn’t tell them apart for other than a few inches in height they all looked alike—poked their head through the canvas opening and whispered something in her ear.

      Stafford’s nerves ground together like millstones at the way her voice softened. When she spoke to those children honey practically poured out of her mouth. When it came to him, her tone was as sharp as needles. He couldn’t help but imagine it would be the same for Mick. The poor fool. What had he been thinking?

      An hour later, Stafford had flipped that question around on himself. What had he been thinking? Though he wasn’t an overly religious man, he found himself staring skyward and pleading. Save me. For the love of God, save me.

      Traveling with six kids was maddening. They flapped around more than chickens in a crate and argued nonstop, not to mention he’d had to halt the wagon again, twice, for people to relieve their “small bladders.” No wonder. She passed the canteen between those kids on a steady basis. Insisting they drink in this heat.

      He’d had enough. That was all there was to it. Enough. Even before discovering the dog—which looked more like a rat—the kids had been hiding in the back of the wagon. It had been clear Marie hadn’t known the older boys had smuggled it aboard, not until it, too, had to relieve itself. A dog that size wasn’t good for anything except getting stepped on, and from the looks of its round belly and swollen teats, there’d soon be a few more of them running around. Marie had been surprised about that, too. When he’d pointed it out, her cheeks had turned crimson.

      Before she began loading the children and the dog back into the wagon, Stafford leaned through the front opening of the canvas, gathered up both canteens and stashed them beneath the seat.

      They’d be putting on some miles before anyone got another drink. He wasn’t being mean, wouldn’t let anyone die of thirst, he was just putting his foot down.

      It was a good ten minutes before everyone was settled in the back of the wagon and she’d once again stationed her bottom on the seat beside him. Stafford didn’t bother waiting for her signal, just gave out a low whoop that sent the horses forward.

      A short time later, when the little guy with the lisp said he was hungry, Stafford merely shook his head.

      She on the other hand, said consolingly, “I’m sure we’ll stop for lunch soon, Weston.” Flipping her tone sour as fast as a cook turns flapjacks on a grill, she added, “Won’t we, Mr. Burleson?”