The Wrong Cowboy. Lauri Robinson

still, once they’d hit camp, those kids had all but licked their plates clean. Actually, the two little ones had licked their plates. Marie had scolded them while he and Jackson shared a grin. They weren’t so bad—those kids—once they’d figured out that they couldn’t run roughshod over him the way they did over Marie.

      Polly was still going wild, and Stafford settled a harness over one horse’s neck. “Finish this up, will you?” he asked Jackson, already moving toward the dog. If the crazy thing had a skunk cornered they’d all pay for it.

      Stafford was almost to the edge of the thick bush when a noise caught his attention above the barking. It was faint, and subtle, but the kind of sound that a man never forgets once he hears it. Drawing his gun, Stafford scanned the ground cautiously, meticulously. Rattlers were shady and had the ability to blend in to their surroundings like no other creature.

      “Get out of here, Polly,” he hissed, kicking dirt to scare the dog aside. It didn’t help. She started barking faster, louder. A movement near the roots of the bush proved it was a snake, shaking the buttons on its tail. The head was hidden and Stafford eased his way around the bush. He saw it then, arched up and drawn back, ready to strike.

      Stafford fired.

      The bullet hit its mark. The snake flew backward into the bush. At the same time, a scream sounded and Stafford saw little more than a flash of white out of the corner of his eye. He took a step, rounded the bush fully and stopped.

      Hands over her ears, flat on her stomach with her skirts up around her waist and her bloomers around her ankles, lay Marie. It had to be her. She was the only woman for miles around, and that was about the cutest bare bottom he’d ever seen. So lily white, round and somewhat plump, he had a heck of a time pulling his eyes off it.

      Screeching and thuds said the children were approaching so he holstered his gun and bent down, taking her arms to haul her to her feet. “Come on.”

      Wrestling against his hold, she demanded, “Why were you shooting at me?”

      He grasped her more firmly and twisted her about. “I wasn’t shooting at you. Now pull up your bloomers before the kids see you.”

      Her eyes grew as round as dish plates and her face turned redder than last night’s sunset. “Ooh!” She threw into a fit. Mouth sputtering and arms flaying so out of control she couldn’t stand.

      He hoisted her to her feet. “Pull up your bloomers,” he repeated and then spun around, blocking her from view of the children racing around the bush.

      “What did you shoot?” asked Terrance, the oldest and first to arrive.

      “A rattler,” Stafford answered, pointing toward the bush. “Stand back, I gotta make sure it’s dead. Keep your brothers and sisters back, too.”

      Terrance held out his arms, stopping the others from coming any closer as they arrived, and Stafford spun back around to check on Marie. The expression on her face was pure mortification. Could be the gunshot or the snake, but he was putting his money on the fact he’d caught her with her bloomers down, and it took all he had not to chuckle. “You all right?” he asked, tongue in cheek.

      She nodded.

      He picked up a stick and used it to poke at the snake before hooking it. Dead, it hung limply over the stick, and a tiny quiver inched up his spine as he pulled it clear of the foliage. It was a good-size rattler. Pushing four feet or more.

      “I thought you said you shot a rabbit,” Terrance said. “That’s not a rabbit, it’s a snake.”

      “It’s a rattlesnake,” Stafford explained. “They’re called rattlers because of the sound they make.”

      The children oohed and aahed but it was the shuddering “Oh,” coming from behind him that had him twisting around. Marie’s face had about as much color as a cloud, and she appeared to be drooping before his eyes.

      Stafford dropped the snake and caught her elbow. She slouched, but didn’t go all the way down. “Here,” he said, “sit down.”

      She half nodded and half shook her head at the same time. “No, I’m all right. I don’t need to sit down.” The hold she had on his arm tightened. “Just give me a second to catch my breath.”

      An odd sensation ticked inside him. She had guts, he had to give her that. Plenty of women, men, too, might have fainted dead away to see the size of the snake that had almost sunk its fangs into her backside.

      “She didn’t get bit, did she?” Jackson asked, squeezing between the bush and the children to pick up the stick holding the snake.

      Stafford waited for her to answer. Rattlers usually only bit once, because as soon as they sank their fangs in they held on and started pumping venom.

      “No,” she said weakly. “I wasn’t bitten.”

      “Good thing,” Jackson answered. “A rattler’s bite can be deadly.”

      Her hold increased and Stafford experienced a bout of frustration at the Swede for being so insensitive. Not that he’d been overly sensitive to her during the trip, but that was different. At least, in his mind it was.

      “Gotta lance open the wound,” the Swede went on. “Bleed out the poison as soon as possible and the person still might not make it.”

      For a split second Stafford’s mind saw her backside again, and he cringed inwardly at how much damage that snake could have done.

      “Whatcha gonna do with that?” Terrance asked, nodding toward the snake.

      “Well, we could have snake stew for supper,” Jackson answered.

      Marie made a quiet wheezing sound as she drew in air. She also straightened her stance and didn’t lean so hard against him. Stafford watched her closely as she shook her head. It was almost as if he could see her gumption returning.

      “We will not be eating that,” she said sternly. “Not in a stew or any other way you might consider preparing it.”

      Jackson nodded. “Most folks don’t take to eating them very well. I’ll get rid of it.” The man laid the snake on the ground and pulled a knife from his boot. “Just gonna cut off the rattles.”

      “Why?” Terrance asked.

      “’Cause that’s what you do,” Jackson said. “Look here.” He waved for the children to step closer. “Each one of these buttons, that’s what they’re called on his tail, was formed when it shed its skin. By counting the buttons, you can guess how old the snake might be.”

      The children had gathered close, even the girls, and Stafford took a couple of steps backward, taking Marie with him. “You doing all right now?”

      Her gumption may have returned, but there was something else about her that caught him off guard. She looked all soft and feminine, especially her big doe eyes.

      “Yes, thank you,” she said softly.

      “Thank your little dog, there,” he said roughly, not too willing to accept her gratitude. “If she hadn’t started barking, you may have gotten bit.”

      Her cheeks turned bright pink. “I threw a pebble at her, trying to hush her up.”

      “That couldn’t have been what riled up the snake,” he said, setting her arm loose and stepping away. “They usually skedaddle when it comes to things bigger than them.”

      Another shudder of sorts was creeping its way up his spine. He wasn’t entirely sure, but he sensed it had something to do with standing this close to Marie, touching her, whispering. Those were not things he did.

      “Well, thank you, and Polly, for coming to my rescue,” she said.

      “There was no rescuing involved,” he clarified.

      She was wringing her hands and cringing slightly, her face still flushed. He knew why a moment later.