over the edge of the narrow mattress and stared around the room, prodding her memory like a rogue steer. She rubbed the small of her back and winced. After three years of bunking on the hard ground, this bed was a mite too soft.
It looked like the sun had risen at least a half hour ago, and sounds of breakfast preparations came from beyond her door. Angel’s heart sank at the thought of sitting down to a meal with all those people. The boss had mentioned having his cowboys share the meals with his family. Social skills were not her strong suit.
A glance around her room revealed a tall bureau with a small oval mirror above it. An earthenware basin, pitcher, hairbrush, and comb set rested on top of a fancy bit of lace. She crossed the room and reached out a hesitant hand, touching the pitcher. What beautiful colors. A heart hunger rose inside her. She snatched back her hand and gripped it with her other one. How foolish. She was a tracker. Not a woman deserving of pretty things.
She started to turn away but paused when she glimpsed herself in the mirror. Black curls hung in disarray well past her shoulders, and touches of dust smudged her cheeks. Somehow she’d missed a few spots before falling into bed last night. Dare she use the hairbrush and comb? And maybe even the ribbon lying alongside? Braiding her hair would keep it out of her way, and surely Mrs. Waters—Libby, as she’d asked to be called—wouldn’t have left the items if she wasn’t to use them.
Five minutes later she stared with satisfaction at her image—neat and presentable, even if she did feel a little strange sporting a ribbon on the end of her braid. With her hair pulled back, maybe the men wouldn’t be so apt to gawk. They might even forget she was a woman, when they saw her packing a rifle and wearing her denim trousers each day.
Angel cracked her door and peered out. Three men stood nearby, talking and laughing. Libby glided past, carrying a platter of fried potatoes. Angel’s mouth watered, and her stomach growled. No more lollygagging in her room. She stepped out into the short hallway and in two quiet strides arrived at the dining area.
Silence fell over the group gathered near the long table. Arizona raised his head and stared. “Well, I’ll be jigged. I wasn’t dreaming yesterday, Wren. She’s a looker, just like I said.”
Wren elbowed his partner and scowled. “Shut yer trap, you dinged fool.”
Angel swung her warm gaze away from the men, willing her color to return to normal. Men at the outlaw camp had bantered and tossed ribald comments at the women, and she’d hardly noticed.
If only she could resume her role as a man. She’d been stupid to reveal her womanhood, and now she’d pay, just like some of the women at her old camp. She hitched at her belt and raised her chin. Her gun. It would stand between her and these men, if need be. Arizona seemed harmless, but you never knew.
Arizona slapped his forehead. “Golly! I’m plumb sorry, Miss. Wren here is right. I’m a fool, no two ways about it.” He bent pleading eyes on her and mustered a weak smile. “Can you forgive me. Agin?”
She opened her mouth to answer, but a young voice piped into the silence. “Where’s your gun, Miss Angel? Are you going to shoot wolves today? Can I come with you?” The questions tumbled from James’s lips, his voice breaking in a high note on the last words. He winced and cleared his throat. “If it’s all right with Uncle Travis.”
Libby plunked a platter of beefsteak on the table and turned with her hands on her hips. “It certainly is not all right with me, young man. I’m sure Miss Ramirez will have enough to do without you getting in her way. Besides, you know what I think about you shooting animals.”
Resentment flashed across the boy’s face. He hung his head and kicked his toe against the wood floor. “Yes, Ma.”
Travis clapped James on the back and ushered him toward the table. “Enough talk. The food’s
It looked like the sun had risen at least a half hour ago, and sounds of breakfast preparations came from beyond her door. Angel’s heart sank at the thought of sitting down to a meal with all those people. The boss had mentioned having his cowboys share the meals with his family. Social skills were not her strong suit.
A glance around her room revealed a tall bureau with a small oval mirror above it. An earthenware basin, pitcher, hairbrush, and comb set rested on top of a fancy bit of lace. She crossed the room and reached out a hesitant hand, touching the pitcher. What beautiful colors. A heart hunger rose inside her. She snatched back her hand and gripped it with her other one. How foolish. She was a tracker. Not a woman deserving of pretty things.
She started to turn away but paused when she glimpsed herself in the mirror. Black curls hung in disarray well past her shoulders, and touches of dust smudged her cheeks. Somehow she’d missed a few spots before falling into bed last night. Dare she use the hairbrush and comb? And maybe even the ribbon lying alongside? Braiding her hair would keep it out of her way, and surely Mrs. Waters—Libby, as she’d asked to be called—wouldn’t have left the items if she wasn’t to use them.
Five minutes later she stared with satisfaction at her image—neat and presentable, even if she did feel a little strange sporting a ribbon on the end of her braid. With her hair pulled back, maybe the men wouldn’t be so apt to gawk. They might even forget she was a woman, when they saw her packing a rifle and wearing her denim trousers each day.
Angel cracked her door and peered out. Three men stood nearby, talking and laughing. Libby glided past, carrying a platter of fried potatoes. Angel’s mouth watered, and her stomach growled. No more lollygagging in her room. She stepped out into the short hallway and in two quiet strides arrived at the dining area.
Silence fell over the group gathered near the long table. Arizona raised his head and stared. “Well, I’ll be jigged. I wasn’t dreaming yesterday, Wren. She’s a looker, just like I said.”
Wren elbowed his partner and scowled. “Shut yer trap, you dinged fool.”
Angel swung her warm gaze away from the men, willing her color to return to normal. Men at the outlaw camp had bantered and tossed ribald comments at the women, and she’d hardly noticed.
If only she could resume her role as a man. She’d been stupid to reveal her womanhood, and now she’d pay, just like some of the women at her old camp. She hitched at her belt and raised her chin. Her gun. It would stand between her and these men, if need be. Arizona seemed harmless, but you never knew.
Arizona slapped his forehead. “Golly! I’m plumb sorry, Miss. Wren here is right. I’m a fool, no two ways about it.” He bent pleading eyes on her and mustered a weak smile. “Can you forgive me. Agin?”
She opened her mouth to answer, but a young voice piped into the silence. “Where’s your gun, Miss Angel? Are you going to shoot wolves today? Can I come with you?” The questions tumbled from James’s lips, his voice breaking in a high note on the last words. He winced and cleared his throat. “If it’s all right with Uncle Travis.”
Libby plunked a platter of beefsteak on the table and turned with her hands on her hips. “It certainly is not all right with me, young man. I’m sure Miss Ramirez will have enough to do without you getting in her way. Besides, you know what I think about you shooting animals.”
Resentment flashed across the boy’s face. He hung his head and kicked his toe against the wood floor. “Yes, Ma.”
Travis clapped James on the back and ushered him toward the table. “Enough talk. The food’s
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