Dorothy Garlock - [Wyoming Frontier] by Midnight Blue Page B

will lie there and starve to death before I cook for you.”
    Mara’s level stare, daring him to defy her, effectively silenced his lips, but his eyes, as dark as midnight, gleamed with resentment. He eased himself down on the bunk and pulled the blanket up to his chest.
    “I’ve got to have my clothes . . . ma’am.”
    Mara picked up the shirt that lay on the floor and held it up. “This is beyond repair.”
    “Jes—” He cut off the word. “That buckskin shirt saved me some skin. Where’s Trell? Where are my britches? Hell, I’m as defenseless as a babe lying here.”
    “Trell’s gone to get your mother’s breakfast. You don’t need your britches because you’re not going anywhere, and you needn’t worry about lying there defenseless. I’ll guard you until you can take care of yourself.”
    “My God, Ma! Did you hear that? She’ll guard me!”
    “Yes, I’ll guard you with this.” Mara took the pistol from her pocket. “I know how to load it and how to shoot it.”
    “Put that damn thing away before you blow my head off!”
    “That’s not a bad idea. Blowing your head off, I mean. I’m tempted to do it, but I almost broke my back getting you into that wagon. I’ll not waste that effort by shooting you now.”
    “You are most kind and generous, ma’am.”
    “What did you mean when you said you tried to head me off at Sheffield Station? Did you intercept the letter I sent to Cousin Aubrey?”
    “No, I did.”
    “You . . . Cousin Brita?” Mara was almost too stunned to speak.
    “Trell went to town ’n brought the mail. Don’t be blamin’ Pack, darlin’,” Brita pleaded.
    Mara felt a wave of bitter disappointment and turned eyes dark with hurt on Brita. For the first time since she came home she felt like crying.
    “Why? Why don’t you want me here?”
    “Child, it not be a matter of wantin’ ye here.” Brita rolled her head on the pillow, her eyes filled with tears. “There be no nice thin’s here yer used to havin’. ’Tis rough ’n wild country, with rough ’n wild men. There be no one to stand ’tween ye ’n them.”
    “Do you mean to say Cousin Aubrey and Cullen wouldn’t protect me if . . . if I needed protection?”
    Mara heard a snort of disgust come from Pack.
    “I don’t be knowin’ if they . . . could.”
    “Or would,” Pack added.
    Mara turned on him in a temper, feeling hot, uncomfortable, a little lost and unsure. He stared back at her, his eyes telling her that he knew of her uncertainty. When she spoke, there was nothing but cold determination in her voice.
    “You keep out of this. I’m talking to your mother,” she said frigidly. She was surprised and pleased that her voice came calmly from her tight throat because she was burning with uncertainty. She braced herself for a mocking jibe, but none came, and she turned back to Brita. “If you were worried that I would ask you and Aubrey to leave, you can rest assured that I will not. I owe you, as my mother’s friend, and I owe Aubrey for working this place and keeping me in school.”
    “But, darlin’—”
    Brita was interrupted by Pack. “ ’Tis good of you not to throw my mother out.”
    His voice plucked at Mara’s already taut nerves, and only a momentary burst of common sense prevented her from yelling at him. She turned a cool, superior gaze on him.
    “Your mother will always be welcome in my home. However, that does not necessarily apply to her son, Mr. Gallagher. I have no such obligation to you,” she said calmly, then turned quickly and left the room.
    “Ye shouldn’t rile her, son,” Brita murmured. “She be a fine lass, ’n the spittin’ image of Colleen McCall, but with more spirit. Ye should have seen her pull that little gun on Cullen.”
    “On Cullen? What did he do?”
    “He be mouthin’ off, like he does. She says be civil or be leavin’. Cullen come to yer bed, ’n cool as ye please the lass moved in ’n pulled the gun from her pocket. Cullen backed off. She