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His gaze sent an oddly sensual quiver through every nerve in her body.
“You’ve no right to be running sheep in this part of the state,” she said. “This is cattle country.”
A dangerous smile tugged at a corner of his mouth, underscored by the dance of lightning in the dark sky behind him. “This is open range. And only a cattleman’s woman would talk like that.”
Rachel had to raise her voice to be heard above the echoing thunder. “A cattleman’s daughter!” she snapped. “And if you so much as lay a finger on me—”
His cold, bitter laughter interrupted her. “I’m aware of who your father is, Miss Tolliver. I’ve even heard a few tales about his spoiled, redheaded hellion of a daughter. Believe me, I’d just as soon pick up a live rattlesnake as lay a finger or anything else on you…!”
Acclaim for Elizabeth Lane’s latest books
Bride on the Run
“Enjoyable and satisfying all around, Bride on the Run is an excellent Western romance you won’t want to miss!”
—Romance Reviews Today (romrevtoday.com)
Shawnee Bride
“A fascinating, realistic story.”
—Rendezvous
Apache Fire
“Enemies, lovers, raw passion, taut sexual tension, murder and revenge—Indian romance fans are in for a treat with Elizabeth Lane’s sizzling tale of forbidden love that will hook you until the last moment.”
—Romantic Times
Wyoming Woman
Elizabeth Lane
MILLS & BOON
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For Barbara
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Epilogue
Chapter One
Wyoming, May 24, 1901
T he wagon road that cut south from Sheridan was little more than a rutted cow path meandering between clumps of sage and rabbit brush, skirting boulders and dipping through gullies as it wound its way toward the horizon. Its washboard surface jarred every bone in Rachel Tolliver’s body as she balanced on the seat of the buggy she had rented at the railroad depot. Her gloved hands gripped the leather reins as she struggled to slow the headstrong mule. Her trunks, bags and hat boxes bounced and rattled on the floorboards as every bump threatened to send them flying into the sagebrush.
She had been in the East too long, Rachel thought. Three years ago, she would not have given the mule, the rickety buggy or the dusty, rutted road a second thought. But her time at art school in Philadelphia had spoiled her. She had become accustomed to paved roads and well-mannered horses, and had even ridden in an automobile. Wyoming was a wild, rough, different world. But it was home, and despite the bumpy ride, her heart sang with happiness.
Slamming the wheel brake forward, she swerved to miss a jutting boulder. The buggy lurched like a drunkard, almost throwing her across the patched leather seat, but the mule, who had evidently learned that a brisk pace meant a swift return to the barn, did not even slow its careening trot.
Using her legs to grip the seat, Rachel repinned her chic straw hat atop her upswept, red-gold hair and braced herself for the next washed-out section of road. She was beginning to wish she’d wired her family at the ranch and let them know she was coming a week early. They could have met the afternoon train and given her a pleasant ride home in the big, lumbering wagon they used to haul supplies. Instead she had decided to surprise them.
What in heaven’s name had she been thinking?
Rachel had traveled this road countless times by horse and wagon, and she knew every rutted, bumpy, wandering foot of it. Just ahead lay the long, steep hill that marked the halfway point between Sheridan and the sprawling cattle ranch where her family lived. Once she made it over the top, the most tedious part of the trip would be over. She would be able to fly down the switchbacks on the other side, then enjoy the level stretch that cut across the open plain.
She could just imagine her family’s reaction when she drove the buggy in through the ranch gate. Her mother would be overjoyed to see her but would fuss over the fact that she’d made the long drive alone. Her half Shoshone father, a loving but undemonstrative man, would give her a restrained hug, ask her about school and return to his chores. Her twin brothers, Jacob and Josh, would be clamoring to see the presents she’d brought them—a collection of the silly little mechanical toys they loved and had never out grown, even in their late teens. They would be racing the small wind-up automobiles up and down the upstairs hallway, laughing and whooping like young savages. The sound of that laughter, Rachel thought, would be music to her ears.
Three years at art school had fulfilled a lifelong wish for her, but time had taught
