A woman tended to arch her back when she was trying to hold on to every ounce of self-respect she had left. Payton knew a little about facing down a group of people who wanted to destroy him. Oh yeah, he definitely knew that feeling.

Tugging the brim of his hat low, he tried to forget the pain that thickened in his chest, trying to starve him of air. He hadn’t won, but maybe Amanda Lemmons would. He hoped so. She deserved a shot. He didn’t think he’d ever hear himself argue equal rights for sheepherders, but that’s what it boiled down to. Long as he didn’t have to see or listen to the dumpy critters, they could go on their merry way.

Yep, the wooly rascals had better stay on their own side of the fence if they wanted to get along with him.

Payton was a born and bred cowman and nobody, not even the sassy hat-mauler in sheep’s clothing, could change that.

Amanda watched until Payton McCord became a speck in the distance. She hadn’t meant to rub his nose in his misfortune with the hat. But, damn him, he shouldn’t have come borrowing trouble. It was best she told him right off how things were. Saved time.

“Nice man,” John said softly. “Nerves of steel. Wasn’t a bit afraid of my knife.”

“You old crow bait, you’ve forgotten any such skills. Been too many moons ago since you scalped anyone, if you ever did. You only said that to get his attention. And since when did you develop a liking for high-struttin’ cowboys?”

“I have nothing against anyone. Maybe you should try to understand ’em instead of running ’em off. You are a beautiful woman and way too young to be so soured on life.”

“I’m perfectly happy this way. I can live without the likes of McCord. I have my flock to occupy my time.”

“The bleating of sheep cannot compare to a human voice whispering in your ear. Or have you forgotten the warmth of a touch? You need companionship. The Great Father didn’t mean us to live life all alone. Surely you desire for someone to share your days. And nights.”

She thirsted and pined for such a man. If John’s Great Father meant for things to be different why had he given her an extra helping of solitude and despair and left off masculine, comforting arms to hold her?

“I’m not going to let myself get taken in by every two-bit hustler.”

“You do not trust this man?”

Truth be told, it was herself that Amanda didn’t dare trust. Payton McCord had awakened too many unbearable fancies she’d buried long ago in Santa Fe. The man tempted her to forget the pain of believing in people who let her down.

She would steel herself against temptation.

And she would put her faith in no one ever again.

Chapter 8

Early the following morning Payton threw a blanket over Domino, stealing a sideways glance at the lone figure standing in the barn door, staring moon-eyed toward the little cabin across the compound. Payton felt sorry for Joe despite being angry enough to cuss a blue streak over the stunt his friend pulled with the desirable Miss Lemmons.

“Ever think maybe you should pick Lucy some flowers, Joe?”

A heavy sigh filled the space.

“Reckon it couldn’t hurt none.”

Joe stalked toward yellow blooms that scattered down the fence row. Payton grimaced when the man yanked the stalks from the ground by the roots and marched toward his former home like General Grant bound for Richmond.

Lucinda evidently kept one eye trained on the window because she waited until her husband got within a few feet of the porch before letting the first boot fly. Joe skittered back out of range of her pitching arm.

“I picked you posies, sweetheart.” Dirt fell from the handful of plants he held out.

“Get your bony, flea-bitten rear end back across the yard. And take your weeds with you. I’ll tell you when you can call.”

“Dammit, Lucinda! I cain’t apologize if you won’t let me.”

Payton whistled a tune, focusing on cinching the wide band around Domino’s girth. His attempt to keep a straight face failed. Luckily, he wiped off the grin before his glum friend noticed. “That Lucy sure can sweet talk a fellow.”

Daggers in Joe’s eyes could’ve slain a den of man-eating bears. Payton ducked his head, grateful he had things to do that spared watching his best friend’s misery.

“Anymore bright ideas, McCord?”

“Nope.”

“Then I suggest you get busy with the branding. I see the boys have rounded up the herd and headed this way. They’ll have ’em in the corral before you can get a good fire built.”

Domino pranced as though anxious to get to friendlier ground. Payton was about to swing up when their boss’s wife, Ellen Sanborn, opened the door of the Frying Pan’s sprawling ranch house to shake a blanket. Ellen hummed a pretty hymn, so that must be a good sign Boss’s health had improved.

A solid thud behind him made Payton whirl. Joe had hauled off and kicked the tar out of a half-full rain barrel. Water sloshed up to the rim. Payton hoped Joe didn’t break a toe to add to his list of misfortunes. He wasn’t about to ask though.

“Any word on Mr. Sanborn’s bout with the grippe?”

Joe hobbled to the workbench in front of the barn. “Doc said if the missus can get enough of Golden’s Liquid Beef Tonic down Mr. Sanborn’s gullet he’ll be up and around soon. Now get out of here and quit being so nosy.”

This mess with Lucy sure had Joe in a dither.

Payton was suddenly overjoyed he only had a bunch of cows to worry with-anything that wasn’t connected to women or sheep.

He rubbed his bum knee and set off to meet the cloud of dust. His mind wasn’t on the task at hand, but on the bunkhouse that burst at the seams with the addition of Joe. A dozen men trying to keep out of each other’s hair had gotten harder. To make it worse, their foreman persisted in grinding his teeth and fiddling with every blooming thing even if it didn’t need fiddled with.

“Domino, I’m going to have to take matters in my own hands with Lucy if any of us are to get a minute’s peace.”

Besides, he had a more important reason now. The longer this thing dragged on, no telling what Joe would hatch up next. He didn’t need his life complicated further. He had enough to try to sort out as it stood.

For one thing, Amanda had already lumped him into the category of skunk oil salesmen and riffraff. And Lord only knew when he could repair the damage done in town. He could testify that he had grief by the dozens. Too bad he couldn’t crate it up like eggs and sell it. He’d be rolling in money.

A few hours later, Payton separated a calf from its mother. He swung the lariat, caught two hind legs, and tightened the rope around the horn. He leaped off Domino and, with a twist, flipped the protesting calf onto its right side near the branding fire. Bert and Amos rushed forward. One anchored the head, the other the feet.

Payton removed the rope and gave Felipe room to press the brand smoothly against the flank.

Scorched hide greeted Payton’s nostrils. Everything he ate for the next month would likely bear the taste. He took a swig from his canteen to whet his whistle and watched the bewildered baby shake his head and bellow for his mother. Mama Cow charged over, checking her calf from head to tail. Then, giving Payton a disagreeable eye, she nudged her offspring away from the rest of the herd. Seemed his popularity with females had spread.

Riding herd involved hard work, long hours, and short pay but Payton loved the freedom of the range.

A man had plenty of fresh air out on the panhandle. Endless prairie land rose up to kiss the sky like a jealous lover, creating a breathtaking landscape.

Life seemed pure here-unblemished, uncrowded, and unappreciated by some. City folks didn’t know what they missed. He poured a cup of coffee from the pot on the fire and joined the others who took a break.

“Hey, Payton, ever think about doing anything else?” Amos cut a plug of tobacco with his pocketknife and stuck the brown chaw in his mouth.

“Nope.” He came into this world a cowboy and that’s how he’d die.

Amos leaned back on his heels. “Sometimes I wonder what walking in a banker’s shoes would be like.”

Bert laughed. “Stiff and squeaky. Ever hear them walk?”

“Sí,” Felipe joined in. “I don’t want no banker’s shoes.”

“Me either.” Amos wiped his mouth. “Squeaky shoes are for stuffed shirts. The damn things would drive a man batty. Reminds me of the time-”

“Oh hush!” Bert tossed a handful of gravel. “Everything reminds you of some time or another.”

“Many days I wish for a pretty senorita though.”

Payton eyed the half-breed. “And what would you do with her, Felipe, my friend?”

“Love her.”

That word again-love. Among a batch of confirmed loners the declaration was like an elephant that everyone saw but pretended it trampled harmlessly an ocean away. Because to admit such existed meant they’d have to think about what their lives didn’t have in it. Like the rest, he didn’t cotton much to changing his ways.

“From what I’ve seen, loving a woman takes a heap of work and patience.” Payton took another swig of water and corked the canteen. The sinful curve of Amanda’s lush mouth crept into his thoughts. Upon the heels of the warm recollection, kissing and cuddling crossed his mind. Damn! She’d probably sic her dog on him if he tried. But, to have her in his arms might be worth getting chewed to bits by a mangy, sheep-smelling animal.

“Shoot, with my luck the woman would turn out like Lucinda and have a God-almighty pitching arm,” Amos replied. “No thanks, I’m satisfied with loving and leaving ’em. Saves on blood and bruises.”

“You couldn’t find one to have you anyway, you old coot.”

“Bert, I’m tempted to make you eat those words.”