His footsteps clomped nearer, and she could feel his presence directly in front of her. When his hands grazed her shoulders and brushed down her arms, she couldn’t keep from turning into a puddle under his touch.
When he drew her to his chest and enveloped her, she rested her head against him. This was home, this was where she belonged, this was where she always wanted to be. Regardless, she forced out the words she knew she had to say. “You’ll be better off without us, Wyatt.”
He tightened his embrace. “Remember what you told Astrid earlier? You told her not to think that she’d be better off without you.”
“That was different—”
“Nope. It ain’t any different. We’re here for each other. And because of that we make each other stronger. You make me a stronger and better man.”
She pulled back so she could see into his eyes—his beautiful, dark eyes surrounded by his beautiful dark lashes. “Oh, Wyatt.”
“Then you won’t sign the annulment papers?”
“Are you sure you won’t come to regret it?”
“Never.”
“But you know I have to leave with Astrid.”
He brushed his hand over her cheek and smoothed back her hair. “Yep.”
“And you know you have to stay here and keep the ranch running?”
“Yep. As hard as it’s gonna be for me tomorrow, I’m letting you go.”
The sadness in his eyes and voice told her he’d resigned himself to whatever the future might bring, and that through it all, he would be there for her.
The words I love you pushed for release. But somehow they couldn’t get past the tightness in her throat. Instead, she slipped her arms around him and hugged him, praying that somehow, someway, they could eventually be together.
Chapter 28
Wyatt ripped the last portion of the annulment and tossed the pieces onto Steele’s desk.
“McQuaid, you should have told me you loved Greta back at the hotel.” Steele tapped his cigar over an ashtray. “Then we could have avoided all of this unpleasantness with Mr. Hallock.”
“I was aiming to until I got a look at Hallock standing there.”
Hallock had already left with his new lady friend to track down Reverend Zieber to marry them as quickly as possible. Wyatt didn’t blame his friend for being eager to see the deed done before anything else put a hitch in their plans.
He’d been biting at the bit too, ready to get out of town with Greta, away from anything else that might try to take her away from him. But while he’d been wrapping up things with Steele, she headed over to secure her spot on the stagecoach.
“I had the feeling the two of you would be good for each other.” Steele allowed himself a smile. “I’m just glad I was right and that everything worked out well in the end.”
If everything had worked out so well, why did Wyatt feel as if he’d been plowed over by a dozen steers?
Steele’s assistant was in the process of writing out the official agreement for their cattle deal, including Steele’s percentage of the investment. “Sign right here, Mr. McQuaid.” The assistant held the pen above a blank line at the bottom of the sheet.
Wyatt glanced over the paper, took the pen, then scrawled his name. As he straightened and glanced out the front window of Steele’s house, his sights snagged upon the tall, lanky form of Roper Brawley crossing the street with his two cowhands on his heels.
He’d had to bank his anger toward Brawley while searching for Astrid, but now that the little girl was found, he allowed the embers to fan to life. “Ain’t right that Brawley’s getting away with killing my herd.”
“We can’t do much about it since he’s claiming you took the cattle from him in the first place.”
“You know that ain’t true,” Wyatt said, just as he had the last time he’d talked to Steele about it several days ago, right after the slaughter. “I bought those cattle fair and square from miners coming over the Front Range. And they had my brand on them.”
Steele took a drag on his cigar, then puffed out a cloud of smoke that added to the spicy haze filling the room.
“What do you want me to do, son? Get the vigilance committee together and string him up?”
Wyatt rubbed at the tension building in the back of his neck. He sure as cow patty didn’t want to resort to a lynching. But in this part of the territory, the lynch law and the vigilance committees were all they had to see justice done.
Made up of stable and prominent men, the vigilance committee usually sent a warning to the offender in the form of a letter with a drawing of a tree and a man hanging from it. The word forewarned was penned into a picture of a coffin at the bottom.
As angry as he was with Brawley, the man didn’t deserve to die for killing his cattle. He needed to pay Wyatt back, maybe serve some jail time. But his offense wasn’t the hanging kind.
“Don’t know what to do,” Wyatt said. “But we can’t sit back and let him get away with this. If we do that, then he’s gonna think he can harass me come summer when I drive my Shorthorns here.”
“True enough.”
Brawley sauntered across the street, kicking up dust. He approached the livery just as Greta exited. She nearly collided with the man but recoiled just in time.
When Brawley grabbed her arm, Wyatt released a low growl and bolted to the door. He’d told Brawley not to touch Greta again. And he meant it.
“Where are you going?” Steele pushed away from his desk.
“Brawley’s out there,” Wyatt called over his shoulder. “And he’s got ahold of Greta.”
Wyatt charged out of the house and onto the street, his revolver out of his holster and aimed at Brawley, who was still holding Greta by the arm.
“Let her go, Brawley.” Wyatt cocked the hammer. “Or I’m shootin’.”
In the process of trying to shrug free of Roper Brawley’s grip, Greta halted. Wyatt stood in the street outside Steele’s house, his revolver aimed at Brawley. His feet were spread, his arm outstretched, his jaw rigid. And his eyes . . . they were already shooting bullets.
“She ain’t yours,” Brawley shouted, his rancid breath assaulting her. “Everyone’s sayin’ you ain’t been living as man and wife. That means she’s free for the taking.”
“She’s mine.” Wyatt’s voice was low and hard. “And she will be ’til my dying breath.”
Roper’s free hand dropped to the ivory handle of his revolver, his weathered skin and dirty fingernails contrasting against the smooth cream color. Her mind flashed with the image of the stagecoach robber’s hand when he’d pointed his revolver at them. Of course, any number of men could have the same brown fingers, crusty fingernails, and ivory-handled revolver.
Greta recalled Astrid’s statement from a few days ago, that Brawley sounded like the robber who’d held up their stagecoach. Had she been too quick in dismissing the possibility because the robber hadn’t been wearing an eye patch?
“Now step away from Greta real slow and easy.”
Brawley dragged her around, forcing her to stand in front of him. “You’re gonna have to fight me for her.”