Pushing through the mercantile door, she almost collided with Opal Duncan who cradled her newborn son as if he were a fragile egg. It didn’t take much to make someone grasp something with such fierce determination when they’d lost their farm and livelihood. Amanda saw her own weary confusion reflecting in the woman’s gray eyes.

“I’m terribly sorry. Are you all right, Mrs. Duncan?”

“You just startled me. You’re Amanda Lemmons, aren’t you?”

Prickles crawled up her back. “Yes, ma’am.”

“I just want to tell you to hang on to what’s yours. Don’t ever let anyone take it away. Fight.” Then she whispered, “Talk to my husband if you ever want to sell any of your sheep.” Tears swam in Opal’s gaze before the woman hurried out the door.

Amanda watched the proud carriage with sorrow. Offer to buy her mutton came unexpectedly. It took brave souls to cross the Association. And Milford Duncan was as strong as they came.

The clock inside the store chimed, reminding her to hurry. She jerked up a sack of sugar and gallon of vinegar and stacked them on a section of the counter. Payton would be making tracks to buy a new hat and she wished to avoid another run-in with the rugged cowboy. Especially one itching to get even. No doubt thick frost would now coat his deep, pleasing baritone.

But, he’d earned what he got for belittling her. In the end he was like all the others. How could she have thought P.M. would stand up when it came time to be counted? The moment came and went and he sat on his California Levi’s. There had been no defending her. No apology. No shame. He was nothing but a cow-lover who trifled with a lady’s feelings. He scoffed her and her sheep.

Her face burned with remembrance. She fretted in vain over damaging him with her plan. She prayed he never forgot how it felt to be an outcast.

“May I assist you, Miss Lemmons?” Jeb Diggs stood beside his wife, Mary Carol. Both wore shocked expressions that said she was awfully bold to help herself like she owned the store.

The sack of flour Amanda was about to sling onto her pile sank to the floor. She’d just committed another unspeakable sin-that of waiting on herself. Truth was she’d been in such a hurry she forgot the social rules and how they applied to her.

She apologized and told the couple her needs, adding a box of cartridges to her list for good measure. Never could have too many bullets, her father always said. He should know. He’d outlasted blue northerns, encroaching cattle barons, and a sour puss of a second wife who tried her best to kill him before she ran off with a snake charmer from a traveling sideshow.

Amanda blinked back sudden tears at the reminder of what it cost to survive and stared at the small mountain on the counter. She must’ve been out of everything.

Thank goodness she’d thought to leave the wagon in front of the mercantile when she arrived that morning. Wouldn’t have far to carry the supplies. Pray tell that a tad of the mutton smell would rub off or someone would see the Diggs’s aiding the enemy.

A fashionable, very pretty woman approached, clutching a pad and pencil of all things. “Miss Lemmons?”

The large feather protruding from the hat perching on the woman’s head indicated wealth, no sympathy for the naked bird she’d stolen the tail feathers from, or both. No one in the Panhandle wore such trappings so perhaps she came from far away and therefore wasn’t part of the mud-slinging. Still, the question made Amanda bristle.

“Who wants to know?”

“Oh dear, I’ve done it again.” The woman stretched out her gloved hand. “Kaira Renaulde from Boston. Well, actually I’m a new reporter for the Panhandle Herald. I only need a moment.”

“I’m sorry.” The striking newsmonger could peddle her papers elsewhere. “Maybe another time.”

Payton McCord should be opening the worn, leather bag Amanda deliberately left behind right about now. All hell would break loose when he discovered the contents.

“I promise to be brief. Please allow me to explain. Somehow, I’ve gotten myself in a bit of a pickle and promised my boss, the editor, I’d get an article for the paper.”

“I really can’t. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

Kaira brushed aside Amanda’s brusque dismissal. Her hand poised to write. “Although I’m from back East I hear it’s quite unusual for a born and bred cowboy and a sheepherder to consort. But I must say it’s quite romantic. Is there any truth to the rumor Payton McCord of the Frying Pan Ranch met you this morning at the hotel, and that he’s written you love letters?”

The perfect opportunity to destroy what was left of Payton’s reputable name fell into Amanda’s lap. What better artillery than a newspaper to finish him off good and proper?

Except, she’d seen integrity in his gentle soul.

“I do apologize, Miss Renaulde. It’s a private matter that I have no wish to air either with you or the entire town. Perhaps you’d have better luck asking the gentleman.”

Without a doubt he could fill the woman’s column for her. But would he? The assortment she’d packed into the valise crossed her mind. Amanda swallowed a lump. Oh yes, he’d definitely want revenge.

“I understand.” The brash reporter broke into her train of thought. “But, in case you change your mind…I’ll be very discreet. I promise.”

“Like I said, it’s between me and McCord.”

Jeb Diggs spoke up. “That’ll be $4.75, Miss Lemmons.”

Amanda winced and counted out the change from what remained of last year’s wool profit. Money dwindled fast. She’d have to begin shearing tomorrow. To her amazement, the Diggs’s son toted the purchase to the wagon while she followed.

Kaira Renaulde of the Herald stood waiting outside. “If you ever want to talk about anything I’m available.”

“Now I know you’re new.” Amanda gave a short laugh. “Evidently you haven’t gotten the latest issue of the Amarillo Scuttlebutt.”

“A cardinal rule in reporting-I don’t listen to gossip. Remember what I said. Everyone needs somebody.”

Indeed they might, but they rarely got what they needed.

Sudden commotion erupted outside the hotel. It appeared some sort of noisy parade. Amanda gulped.

In the center of the maelstrom strode the tall, purposeful figure of Payton McCord. He stalked toward the mercantile, his face the color of ripe beets.

Oh Lord, he’d opened the valise.

“Excuse me, Miss Renaulde.” Amanda clambored onto the wagon seat. “I really mustn’t dawdle. Have a nice day.”

A fleeting glance over her shoulder reminded her of a story she once read about the folly of awakening a sleeping lion.

This lion didn’t have a bit of sleep in his eye.

Chapter 6

Blood thundered in Amanda’s ears as Amarillo faded like remnants of a dusty dream under the speeding wagon wheels. The sun bore a tad more heat than ordinary. But to be honest, she couldn’t lay the blame for moisture pooling between her breasts solely on the warm rays.

An unfamiliar feeling rippled, the intensity choking her.

Something indescribable had changed. Her life had taken a totally unexpected turn. Good, bad, or indifferent-it shook her to the core.

The cloudless sky appeared a vivid turquoise instead of simply blue. Crows flitted and dipped through the air in some sort of odd bird promenade. Perhaps they, too, sensed this odd awakening of sorts.

For once she’d bested the buffle-headed land-grubbers. McCord should understand she wouldn’t abide any cheap tricks.

Although he denied writing the love letters, and perhaps she could believe that without too great a stretch, he hadn’t stood up for her. He hadn’t stopped the ridicule. He hadn’t seen beneath the surface. Disgust for her chosen profession had colored his minty gaze a shadowed tint of purple nightshade.

The man could be dangerous in a way she’d never known.

Before she reached home, a sobering thought crossed her mind, one she didn’t particularly relish-McCord would insist on returning the valise. Putting the assortment of imprisoning devices in the case made certain of that.

She’d have to see him again.

Sudden recollection of the sinful curve of his mouth rocked confidence that she could handle the visit. A horde of locusts seemed to have made a nest in her stomach.

From the wagon bed, the gentle slosh of vinegar against the sides of the bottle added to the floundering in her brain.

At least she had all the ingredients for a vinegar pie. Didn’t hurt to have one ready to throw in McCord’s well-chiseled face. The concoction would serve the conniving jularker right.

She crested a rise and the adobe dwelling she called home came into view. Her breathing returned to normal. She was back on her land where she knew the workings of things, where she didn’t have to pretend, where she could be who she wanted without worry or fear of reprisal. Her dog and her flock provided all the security she needed even though it did get a bit dreary at times. Give her that any day to a piece of the world that saw and judged people unfairly.

The familiar sight also served to remind of her distaste for cattlemen. Something she needed to bear in mind next time she encountered the broad-shouldered Texan. She welcomed the pain if only because it drew horns on P.M.’s handsome head. And anyone else who chose the path to her door.

Movement in front of her home brought skitters of alarm until she saw long braids on the man who eased from the weather-beaten willow chair. Her old Navajo friend, John Two Shoes Running Deer, always seemed to know the precise time for shearing, although he had no use for printed calendars. He marked the days in his head and by the seasons, as his culture had taught for generations. She pulled the horses to a stop and set the brake.