Where Eagles Fly Page 2

  “Nope.” Ma heaved a sigh of relief. “I reckon not.”

  When they got to within speaking distance of their visitor, she picked up the black furry animal and clutched it to her bosom. It was then Ruckert recognized it to be some sort of pedigreed dog, but as interesting a creature as it might appear, his attention was drawn to Miss McCoy. Her light reddish-blond hair was silky and windblown and ended with a flip along her jaw line. She removed the dark spectacles and tucked her hair behind one ear.

  She peered up at him with a pair of narrow, mysterious eyes. Eyes the deep, intense blue of the larkspur that dotted the plains. At their corners, Ruckert noticed a few, faint character lines, and from there her cheeks became two creamy planes set in a face that leaned toward the slender side. With those beguiling eyes she assessed him openly, letting him know she was a woman and no schoolgirl.

  Ruckert felt his manly parts stir.

  Despite his personal circumstances, he’d been raised a gentleman and regarded women as precious things to be cared for and cherished. This one here might present herself in a manner that defied convention by cropping her hair and dressing like some fellow, then having the temerity to paint her lips like a common dance-hall queen and pretend there was nothing out of the ordinary about it, but for a fact, Miss McCoy had to be the most unconventional, fascinatingly beautiful and peculiar woman he’d ever met in twenty-nine years of life.

  He tipped his black Stetson to the back of his head so she’d have a full view of his smile. Leaning over the saddle horn with wrists crossed, Ruckert set aside his concerns and greeted, “G’morning, m…a’am.”

  For a moment his lips remained frozen on the “m” before he could force them on to the next sound. All the familiar sensations associated with his stuttering arose to torment him—the body tension, accelerated heartbeat, a sense of suffocation in his chest—and he feared he wouldn’t be able to utter another coherent sound. What other men performed as easily as breathing proved a futile struggle for him.

  To him it was a thing of terror to behold such beauty and feel himself so inadequate. Rage and shame filled him, along with the realization that no woman would want a man who couldn’t talk straight, and he promised himself that was the last time he’d ever attempt to speak to Miss Shelby McCoy.

  “Hi!”

  Shelby grinned up at the cowboy with lust and fascination. Wow, who was this guy, smiling down at her with a face handsomer than any she’d seen outside a movie screen? With a thick, black mustache and straight white teeth, he sat loose and limber in the saddle, looking as glorious as something from an old Sam Elliott western.

  His long legs suggested exceptional height. Across his broad shoulders he wore an unbuttoned wool vest and a long-sleeved flannel shirt. A black neckerchief sagged around his neck. Buckskin leather gloves covered his hands. His faded jeans were a soft blue, tight around his knees and tucked inside a pair of scarred, heeled boots, dust in their creases, spur chains tight beneath their insteps.

  Initially, she’d been taken aback and a little frightened upon seeing a wagon and this mounted man heading towards her. They seemed to have materialized out of nowhere, but then the woman driving the wagon waved, and now this beautiful smile. . . .

  She couldn’t take her eyes off him. His face was burned to a golden bronze right up to the place where the brim of his hat had rested on his brow. Blue-black hair curled around its edges and a five o’clock shadow hugged the hard edge of his jaw. He stared back at her with thickly-lashed, sage green eyes, eyes that were both gentle and strong, honest and fearsome.

  His drawl had been devastatingly deep and sinfully rich, even if he had gotten a little choked up. As for Shelby, her heart was beating so fast, she almost forgot to breathe, which caused this sort of suffocation feeling in her chest. It took a moment to find her voice. “You don’t know how glad I am to see you all. My car has a flat.”

  “Howdy, Miss McCoy.”

  This came from the teenage boy in the wagon and immediately she turned. The boy climbed down, politely removing his hat as he approached. He was lanky and tall, almost as tall as Shelby’s five foot nine, with spindly legs and an angular face. His mink brown hair fell pin straight, rather longish and slicked down the middle in an old-fashioned, geeky sort of way.

  “You know my name?”

  “We’ve been expecting you.” The woman driver wrapped the lines around the brake handle, then jumped off with an agility Shelby envied, considering the prairie-length skirt she wore. She offered a hand in greeting and said, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Shelby McCoy. I’m Rose St. Cloud of the Flying Eagle, and these here are two of my boys—Ruckert and Wylie.”

  Shelby looked over the group, then burst into laughter as everything finally fell into place. Rose St. Cloud was the woman in partnership with Caitlin and Michael for ownership of the guest ranch. Relieved, she embraced her hostess’s gloved hand. “I’ll bet Caitlin put you all up to this, huh? Michael is such a practical joker, and my sister knows everything there is to know about Western history and costuming. She’s certainly rolled out the ‘welcome wagon,’ hasn’t she?”

  “I don’t know who you’re referring to, Miss McCoy,” Rose said, pulling something from the pocket of her skirt, “but I got this letter from your grandmother, and that’s why we’re so surprised to find you making your way to the ranch on foot. We were excepting you to arrive in Laramie City by train.”

  Shelby gaped at the folded piece of stationery.

  “Train? Huh? Ah, no . . . my car’s stuck. The arrangement was to meet Cat at the ranch, but I got a flat on the highway back there and. . . .”

  She trailed off, fighting a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. Something very strange was going on here. First the landscape of the highway had changed beneath her feet, then this trio of characters dressed in nineteenth-century garb appeared, and now they were gawking at her as though they had no idea what she was talking about.

  Shelby appealed to her cowboy for assistance, but he pulled down his high-crowned Stetson until its sloping brim shaded his eyes.

  So much for the welcoming smile. Ruckert St. Cloud had just shut her out.

  Chapter Two

  Laramie, Wyoming Territory—1886

  Shelby’s aviator jacket slipped from beneath her armpit and landed in a heap at her feet. The strap of her rucksack slid off her shoulder. Who knew what had happened to the bottled water—and who cared? Jorge was growling and squirming like a maniac in the crook of one arm as she glanced over this supposed letter from her grandmother. It had been written with a fountain pen, in a hand Shelby did not recognize, and on a sheet of antique finish, linen stationery. She began to read:

  My Dear Mrs. St. Cloud,

  This letter sends you a mother’s gratitude for giving my boy Wilson leave to come home and visit. I know it is not an easy thing for an outfit as large as yours to do without their cook for three weeks, so in return, I am sending to you my beautiful granddaughter, Miss Shelby McCoy. Now, I am fully aware ranch cook is no job for a woman, but do not worry about putting her to work. Believe me when I tell you this experience is going to benefit her as much as it will help you and yours. I do feel it only fair to warn you, Shelby is her own woman with her own ideas about things, and if she appears a little strange at times, rest easy that you are in the company of an educated, honest and well brought up young lady. Expect her Monday on the 2:12 train into Laramie City, and I’d be most appreciative if you would have someone waiting at the station to meet her. A woman traveling alone might have occasion to get herself into trouble.

  Warmest regards,

  “Nana” Marie Tinkler

  Cheyenne, Wyoming Territory, June 1886

  After a moment of numbness from the shock, Shelby’s mind began to reel. Ranch cook? . . . ha! 1886? . . . impossible! And the letter had the nerve to call her strange? Who could have penned this mysteriously phrased note and why? The last line particularly intrigued her. Had this author predicted her car trouble
? How odd that the St. Clouds should appear virtually out of nowhere just when she’d needed assistance.

  The letter had been composed as though its writer knew her personally. It even referred to her as beautiful, something a grandmother would do. Funny thing was, Nana Tinkler had been her grandmother . . . once upon a time.

  Marie Tinkler had been her grandmother’s grandmother on her mother’s side of the family. The only reason Shelby knew this was because Caitlin had researched their family lineage. Cat was so proud of their western heritage, she had scoured the family attics and basements for antique photos to display. For some reason, Nana Tinkler, above all the others, had carved a niche in Caitlin’s heart.

  Even if Shelby wanted to believe this historic welcoming party was Cat’s doing, frightening her was totally out of character for her little sister. And Shelby had to admit, she was beginning to get a little unnerved.

  If this was a joke, it had gone too far. She wasn’t laughing. And neither were the St. Clouds.

  The big cowboy, Ruckert, dismounted from his large brown horse. Teenaged Wylie had picked her belongings up off the ground and was now stowing them in the wagon. Rose St. Cloud studied her with a straight, unflinching gaze and asked, “You all right, Miss McCoy?”

  “Fine, thank you. Er, period actors, right?” she ventured, sweeping her hair behind her left ear, where it was already securely tucked. She didn’t understand what was happening here, but there had to be a reasonable explanation.

  No one responded. Ruckert stepped towards her, his movements slow and purposeful. His spurs jingled with his walk, making a soft, musical sound that made Shelby think of wind chimes. And gosh, he had to stand about six-three or -four in those heeled boots. She searched for the subtleties in his appearance that would betray him to be nothing more than a pretend cowboy in historic costume.

  His faded jeans were common enough, straight-legged and shrunk to fit. That hunky, masculine body, on the other hand, was extraordinary. He took her breath away, and it wasn’t until her hormones settled down that Shelby noticed the gun belt slanted across his lean hips. Its holster rested against his left thigh with the butt of the revolver facing forward.

  As he reached her side, Jorge quit squirming to glance up. Shelby motioned to the gun.

  “I hope that’s not loaded. Looks like a valuable antique, but with those cartridges hooked into the gun belt, I would think it dangerous to be displaying a weapon so openly, even if it is just for pretend. There are laws against walking the streets with a handgun.”

  Ruckert glimpsed the frightened curiosity in Miss McCoy’s eyes and took her for a woman who didn’t approve of firearms.

  He couldn’t fault her. In the wrong hands, a gun was a grievous thing. There was no law against carrying a sidearm in Laramie, but she needn’t worry. For safety’s sake, he loaded only five cartridges into the cylinder and left the hammer resting on the one empty shell. He couldn’t understand why she would think it was just for pretend, and this particular model certainly wasn’t an antique. Colt had introduced their .45 Single-Action Army revolver thirteen years ago in 1873.

  He regretted he wouldn’t be easing her mind about the gun, but truth be told, he was more interested in that letter she held in her hand. It seemed to have upset her and he wondered why.

  He’d read it himself, and now as how he’d met Miss McCoy, he had to give her nana credit. In plain speaking, she’d warned them her granddaughter was peculiar. Why, he’d hardly made head nor tails of what that gal had been blathering about to his ma. Something about a cat at the ranch, a flat and a stuck car.

  Car? The only sort of car Ruckert could fathom was a railroad car, and it wouldn’t be traveling on the road to town.

  Nana Tinkler seemed to think Miss McCoy could handle the duties of ranch cook, but Ruckert’d be a liar if he didn’t admit he had his doubts. Personally, he never cared much for these free-thinking women who went about trying to do a man’s work, cutting their hair, dressing in trousers.

  Oddly enough, though, Miss McCoy managed to wear a pair of trousers like they were the most feminine and frilly things in the world. Hers appeared to have been tailored in a way that showed off her hips and legs in a manner that was . . . well, indecent.

  Ruckert hadn’t seen this much of a woman’s body revealed in a long while and reckoned he had no business seeing it now. But he sure was enjoying the view.

  The idea occurred to him that if he admired Miss McCoy’s figure, then so would the punchers at the Flying Eagle. Holden came to mind, and the thought of his younger brother staring at Miss McCoy’s limbs got him steamed, though Ruckert didn’t rightly know why, when he’d already made up his mind he wanted nothing to do with her.

  All the same, he’d sure like to know what was going on inside that pretty little head of hers. He could tell something was wrong, even if she did claim she was fine. Maybe she didn’t feel comfortable talking about it, but it’d do her a world of good to get it off her chest. He wondered if maybe she was having second thoughts about coming to the ranch.

  Plenty of questions percolated inside his head, yet Ruckert didn’t dare ask them. Fact was, he never could tell ahead of time what his speech was going to be like in any given situation, and this was one of the hardest things he’d ever had to accept. Sometimes he could talk with hardly any trouble. Other days it wasn’t worth the effort of flapping his jaw.

  Today was a bad day, but no matter how bad it was, his talk box only gave him grief while he was directing conversation at a person. Now, as for animals . . . well, that was different.

  Ruckert reached for the little dog. “Howdy, dog.”

  “Hey! Oh, no, don’t! He won’t let you . . . he’ll snap . . . he never lets strangers . . . hold . . . him.”

  Shelby watched, dumbstruck, as Jorge went willingly to Ruckert St. Cloud. She watched her temperamental pooch wag his tail at this complete stranger, all too aware of Jorge’s reputation when it came to meeting new people.

  Less knowledgeable folks made witty remarks about her “sissy dog.” They didn’t understand lap dogs. And they certainly didn’t know Jorge. Jorge did not trust easily, but when he gave his love, he gave it fiercely and possessively, along with his loyalty and protection.

  He never failed to yap his head off at visitors. And if Shelby didn’t pick him up before opening the door, he’d tear into the poor unsuspecting victim’s pants hem with a vicious snarl.

  He hated the mailman. The newsboy refused to deliver the paper. Jorge had shredded several pairs of draperies in excited efforts to jump through the window to scare off landscapers and garbage collectors. Eventually, Shelby had gotten wise and hung a balloon valance over the window seat where he sat like a gargoyle guarding her townhouse.

  So how was it this rugged cowboy had no trouble winning her little pom-pom dog’s affection? It was like he had some kind of Zen influence over Jorge, sending him into a calm, relaxed state. Ruckert scratched the Pomeranian behind the ears and was rewarded with a doggie lick on the chin.

  Impressed, Shelby giggled at the sight and waited for Ruckert to acknowledge her. She stood directly in front of him. He knew she was there, and yet he ignored her. She told herself not to get paranoid. He was simply engaged in a bonding moment with her dog.

  All the same, Shelby couldn’t help feeling self-conscious, and she’d also noticed Ruckert hadn’t responded to her comments about his gun.

  “Aren’t you a friendly fellow,” he was saying to Jorge. “And what’s this green band around your neck? There’s something written here on a gold charm.” He twirled Jorge’s lighted safety collar around to inspect the identification tag. “Says George. Oops, looks like someone’s spelled your name wrong.”

  “No, it’s not spelled wrong,” Shelby corrected, attempting to make eye contact. “That’s his name. Jorge.”

  The cowboy scowled, indicating he’d heard, but his focus remained on her dog. He rubbed the back of his neck with the hand he wasn’t using to hold Jorge and sai
d, “I hate to argue with a woman, but what I see here don’t spell Hawr-hey. Not even close. Now, there’s folks claim I don’t have the intelligence of my brothers because I didn’t get my schooling in the States, but the fact of the matter is, I can spell right well for a simple educated man. And this engraving spells Jorge. J-O-R-G-E.”

  Shelby yearned to shout, “Hel-lo. I’m standing right here in front of you, and I deserve to be treated with some common courtesy. Look at me you big, arrogant mule!”

  However, given the fact Ruckert St. Cloud was wearing a gun he refused to acknowledge, was dressed like the Lone Ranger and would only address her dog, there was the off chance he could be unstable. Why risk getting him angry? Instead, she played it cool, affecting a smile, and said, “Jorge is the Latin origin of the name George. It wasn’t my choice. A friend of mine, Jacque, got him because she was lonely. Three months later she starts dating this guy, a total jerk in my opinion, who had issues with Jorge. Anyway, long story short, she decided to look for a new home for Jorge and thought of me. I live alone.”

  Shelby had no idea why she’d felt the need to supply that last nugget of information.

  Ruckert looked at her then, and what Shelby saw in his long-lashed, sage green eyes was genuine embarrassment. He touched the brim of his hat in a gesture she interpreted as an apology.

  To Jorge, he said, “She’s got me there. I’m gentleman enough to admit when I’m wrong. I can spell, but I don’t spell Latin. So if Miss McCoy says your name is Hawr-hey, that’s what I will call you. I apologize for getting your name wrong.”

  What an oddball, Shelby thought. Sad part was, it didn’t diminish her attraction to him. He was dark, sensual and unsettling, yet at the same time she found something sweetly endearing about him. Probably the same thing Jorge was responding to. But hey, not to worry. Any sort of connection between them was totally out of the question. He was way too young, way too gorgeous and way too weird.

  Not that he’d shown the slightest interest in her.