Home > The Heart of a Cowboy (Colorado Cowboys #2)(9)

The Heart of a Cowboy (Colorado Cowboys #2)(9)
Author: Jody Hedlund

Asa had been in the grave for less than two months. How could she allow herself to dwell on even the slightest attraction to Flynn? Doing so was not only wanton, it was disloyal to Asa. He’d been a good man and a good husband. Most of all, he’d been the first to recognize the contributions she could make to the expedition.

He deserved to have her grieve for him properly and not cast him aside the first time a man turned her head.

“You’re correct.” She couldn’t meet his gaze. “I am grieving. Asa was a wonderful man, and I won’t ever forget him.”

Even though she just had, she vowed she wouldn’t again. And as Flynn directed his horse away and rode back to the herd, she refused to let her gaze follow him.

 

 

CHAPTER 4


He’d been a donkey to Linnea. Watching her from the corner of his eye, Flynn leaned against the wagon bed and sopped the last bite of hard cracker in the grease from the roasted rabbit Dylan had shot and dressed. The boy was a natural sharpshooter and, after they’d stopped for the evening had easily rounded up several hares.

Linnea sat with her grandfather and the three other scientists in their group, listening raptly to their description of the herd of bison they’d come across that afternoon. Ivy and Dylan had joined them around the campfire, now blazing from the dried buffalo chips Ivy had collected. The two joined in the conversation, especially Dylan, flirting with Linnea every chance he had. At sixteen, the boy couldn’t pass up the opportunity to chase after any female that gave him half a second’s worth of attention.

Nearby, another large caravan had made camp for the night, circling their wagons together to provide a corral for the livestock. His herd rested a short distance away outside the fold—too big to contain—with Nash and Jericho taking the first watch. At least, this early in the spring, they didn’t have to worry about the grass being overgrazed. Tom Gordon had warned that later in the summer, they’d have a harder time finding grass for the cattle, especially on land adjacent to the trail.

A couple of the cows were nearing birthing time. And one had a lame foot. But for now, their main worry at night was theft and stampedes.

Of course, with Diamond Springs only half a day’s journey to the west, all the other travelers were talking about the attack there a few weeks ago. A captain of the Confederate army and his band of renegades raided the small settlement. They killed one man, wounded a woman, burned the stage station, and plundered the rest of the village. No one knew where these guerilla soldiers—and other ruffians like them—were hiding. And everyone feared more aggression.

Linnea’s laughter wafted toward him, followed by Ivy’s. All day and now all evening, Ivy had trailed the beautiful woman like a pup eager for a pat on the head. Linnea had happily given Ivy every bit of attention she craved. Although Linnea had been quieter and more reserved after he’d been harsh with her, she continued to shower Ivy with kindness.

The last bite of cracker stuck in his throat. He hadn’t needed to be such a donkey, and he wished he could take back his comments about her being a grieving widow. He’d been angry—mainly at himself for finding her so attractive and for being stuck in a position where he was forced to keep on looking at her and feeding his attraction.

He shouldn’t have accepted Dr. Howell’s offer, no matter how good it was. He was swindling the man, especially because watching over Linnea hadn’t been any more difficult than keeping an eye on Ivy. No doubt Dr. Howell had exaggerated his granddaughter’s knack for danger, had probably wanted a nursemaid so he could run off and explore with the other scientists without feeling guilty for leaving the young woman behind.

No matter. Flynn shouldn’t have lashed out at her. She hadn’t done anything wrong in staring at him so curiously. Even if her eyes had flared with an appreciation that had lit a match inside him, she hadn’t done anything to deserve his tongue-lashing. Dr. Howell had already told him she hadn’t been married long enough to develop a bond with her husband. Besides, grieving widows got remarried all the time, sometimes quickly out of necessity, just like his ma had done.

Flynn’s attention shifted first to Dr. Johnson and Dr. Parker, then to Dr. Greely, who’d positioned himself next to Linnea. The firelight reflected off his spectacles and the few strands of silver in his hair and beard. His pipe glowed orange as he took a puff. Old enough to be her father, he was a hefty man with a boisterous laugh and a loud voice. Like most other travelers who’d purchased gear in the shops in frontier towns, he wore thick woolen pants reinforced with buckskin where the legs came into contact with the saddle. His shirt was a blue flannel, his socks woolen, and his knee-length boots were wide enough to tuck his pants into them.

Flynn had only spoken with him briefly when they’d set up camp, and he’d been pleasant enough. Having lost his wife two years ago, the want of a woman dripped from Dr. Greely as readily as the dew that covered the tallgrass every morning and soaked their trousers and shoes. Even now, he leaned closer to Linnea as he relayed a description of a bison calf.

She hadn’t encouraged him in any way. But she hadn’t needed to. Just being herself was enough. It surefire had been enough to draw him in. Even now, he couldn’t stop thinking about her.

“Thunderation,” he whispered, pushing away from the wagon and wiping his plate and knife clean in the grass. Enough was enough. He wasn’t interested in having a woman, not now or ever.

He grabbed the bucket containing a mixture of tallow, tar, and rosin, and set to work greasing the axles and checking each of the wheels by firelight. He made short work of securing a loose tie on the canvas, then moved on to Dr. Howell’s wagon, making the same inspections.

Before sunset, clouds had been gathering to the west. The dampness of the air hinted at rain to come, and he had the feeling they’d get a shower or two during the night. So far, they’d had very few wet days or nights. But this early in the spring, they were bound to have rain, some even heavy.

“Thank you, Mr. McQuaid.” Clay, the hired hand for Dr. Howell’s party, stood above Flynn as he slid out from underneath the wagon. Clean-shaven with slicked-back hair, the young man was apparently one of Dr. Howell’s household staff who’d come along to tend to the older gentleman.

From what Flynn had patched together, Dr. Howell came from a family of old money. One of the other scientists had made a comment about Dr. Howell having a lord in England as a relative. Whatever his history, it was mighty clear he was highborn and wasn’t aiming to be without his servant even on this trip.

In addition to waiting on Dr. Howell hand and foot, Clay was apparently responsible for setting up camp, starting the fire, and cooking a decent meal. Although he seemed close to Flynn’s twenty-two years of age, the manservant lacked the basic know-how for trail life.

Flynn tugged on the canvas, making sure it was pulled taut. “Everything’s ready for the morning. Figured we’d pull out at five. Think you can hitch the oxen and be ready to go by then?”

Clay glanced toward the campfire and the scientists. “Dr. Howell prefers to have time to shave and have his morning tea before starting.”

Flynn suppressed an irritated sigh. “You can tell Dr. Howell and everyone else, they’ll have to wait for shaving and tea ’til we take our midday break.”

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