Texas Hold Him (22 page)

She shoved down her skirt. “
Mr. Straights!
That was not in the least appropriate.”

Dyer glanced up at Newt. “We have to find a horse.”

“I’m fine!” She swatted at the back of her neck. “Once I remove these sticks, I can keep up with the two of you.”

He removed her broken shoe and held it up for her to see. She jerked it out of his hand and bent over to put it back on her
foot.

“I may not be able to walk as quickly,” she mumbled. “But I’ll keep up.”

He sighed and stood, turning his back to her. “Come, Miss Mace. Don’t dawdle.”

“Come where?”

He held his hands out to his side. “Climb on.” He heard a tiny gasp.

“Surely you don’t expect me to ride you like a horse?” He glanced over his shoulder. “Step up on the log and get on my back.
We don’t have time to waste.”

“Might as well do it, Lottie,” Newt said. “There’s no changing his mind when he gets like this.”

Dyer wasn’t sure what Newt meant, though it didn’t matter since it convinced Lottie to climb on his back. It took a few moments
to adjust her skirts so he could hold her legs, but soon they headed north. Newt carried their valises, and Dyer carried Lottie.

Within a mile, they came across a clearing with a small house a few hundred feet off the road. Smoke curled from a chimney
at one end of the shack. A scrawny dog lay in the dirt outside the porch near a pile of firewood in need of splitting. A little
man, even scrawnier than the dog, rocked in a chair near the door.

Dyer allowed Lottie to slide off his back. “Stay with her,” he said to Newt as he ignored her protests and headed toward the
farmer. Fifteen minutes and twenty-five dollars later, he returned with a five-dollar donkey.

“Fine piece of horse flesh you procured for us, Mr. Straights.” Newt patted the donkey’s flank, stirring up a cloud of dust.
It was bad enough the old timer had taken advantage of their circumstances. Newt’s added amusement wasn’t making things better.

Lottie scratched behind one of the big floppy ears. “I think she’s lovely.”

“Would you like to know her name?” Dyer asked.

“No!” she blurted then cleared her throat. “I’m going to name her Sugar because she’s so sweet.”

Lottie seemed pleased with her decision, despite the fact
Sugar
chose that exact moment to fart like the jackasses of her ancestry. Lottie’s cheeks tinged pink.

“She doesn’t smell so sweet,” Newt said.

“I was referring to her disposition. Besides, it’s good to know she doesn’t have colic.”

Dyer chuckled and lifted Lottie’s sweet ass onto the back of the other. He was proud of himself. He didn’t make any more comments
about Sugar’s lack of colic, despite her rather noisy gut and the obvious embarrassment it caused Lottie. She refused to make
eye contact or
comment as Sugar farted her way down the road toward St. Louis.

And Dyer said nothing.

Somewhere along the way, he must’ve become a saint.

Lottie had never been so glad to set her foot on firm ground as she was when they finally stopped for the night. Dyer helped
her from Sugar’s back and led the donkey away to tie her for the night . . . downwind, of course. Gathering some branches
from a few pine trees, Newt arranged the boughs into a makeshift bed. He pulled a bedroll from his valise, and Dyer removed
one from his own. Within a few minutes, they shared some bread and cheese by a crackling fire built more to keep away wild
animals than for heat.

“How far do you think we are from St. Louis?” she asked, grateful to be sitting on a soft blanket rather than on a bony donkey.

“Not sure.” Dyer placed some wood on the fire and returned to sit beside her. “Hopefully we’ll be there in time for the tournament.”

A branch snapped in the darkness. Dyer jerked his head in the direction of the noise and froze.

“Probably Newt bringing more wood,” he said, but his concerned expression didn’t fit with his statement. Another snap brought
him to his feet, and Lottie’s heart jumped into her throat.

“Newt?” he asked.

No answer. Dyer gestured for Lottie to stay quiet, then reached across the blanket for his gun holster.

“Don’t do it, Straights.” The unmistakable click of a cocking gun stopped Dyer’s hand.

Abe Johnson stepped out of the woods and into the light of the fire. His drawn gun pointed directly at Dyer’s chest.

“What do you want, Johnson?”

“I want my money, you son of a bitch.”

“You’d kill a man for a hundred bucks?”

Johnson took aim at Dyer. “I’d kill you for a whole lot less than that.”

Dyer raised his hands. “I’ll give you your hundred bucks if you’ll take it and leave.”

Johnson shook his head. “I’m not talkin’ about the money you cheated from me the other night. I’m talkin’ about how you swindled
me three years ago.”

“I don’t even know—” Dyer started.

“
You do!
” Johnson shouted, his hand shaking with rage. “You took everything I had in a game in Memphis, and you don’t even remember
it, you son of a bitch!”

Lottie gulped and dared a glance toward Dyer’s gun. It was close enough to reach if she dove for it, but Johnson might shoot
Dyer if she moved.

“I don’t remember the game,” Dyer said, “but I don’t cheat. If I beat you, it was fair and square.”

Johnson took a step toward them. His glazed eyes riveted on Dyer. “I lost everything I had.” The gun quivered in his hand,
his voice turning guttural. “Now it’s your turn.”

Suddenly, Newt threw a chunk of wood into Johnson’s hand. Dyer grabbed Lottie and rolled with her behind a log. He grabbed
his gun and jumped to his feet just as shots fired.

She peeked above the log to see Newt and Dyer run
into the woods on Johnson’s trail, but they soon returned empty-handed.

“Did you find him?” Lottie asked.

Dyer walked over and kicked the logs away from the fire to extinguish the flame. “No. But don’t worry.”

“What do you mean, ‘don’t worry’? There’s a crazy man with a gun out there trying to kill us.” How could she not worry about
that
?

He raised his head to look at her. “He wants to kill
me
.” He stomped the embers. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”

Those words coming from any other man wouldn’t have meant much. But they hadn’t come from any other man, and she’d seen enough
of Dyer to know he would protect her, crazy man or not.

He walked over to speak quietly to Newt, then turned to her and said, “Sleep.”

She curled up on the makeshift bed and closed her eyes so he wouldn’t chastise her. But there was no way she would ever sleep
after what had just happened, despite his orders.

Dyer didn’t allow his tired body to relax until daylight lifted the darkness of the forest and Newt stepped back into the
campsite.

“Still no sign of him?” Dyer asked.

Newt shook his head. “There’s blood on one of the trees where he ran. We must’ve nicked him.”

Dyer nodded and pulled himself to his feet to stretch the kinks out of his muscles. He glanced toward Lottie. She hadn’t moved
all night. He knew that because he’d watched her . . . more than he should have and less than he’d wanted to.

“Do you want to wake her or just stare at her?”

Newt’s wiseass grin hit Dyer the wrong way. “I’m not staring at her.” He wasn’t staring at her, really. Just keeping an eye
on her. Lord knew somebody needed to. He walked over and shook her shoulder. “Miss Mace?”

She rolled to her back and let out a tiny “Hmmm?” as she stretched like a cat and opened her eyes.

“We need to get on our way if we’re going to make it in time for the tournament.”

“Oh!” She sat up abruptly as maelstrom of curls sprang from her pins.

He wanted to touch them but every time he did, something happened, and Newt was watching like a hawk. Dyer stepped away and
allowed her to make the adjustments women always made in the mornings. He wondered why they bothered. The tousled look was
much more appealing to his way of thinking.

“Well, damn it.” Newt stepped back into the clearing from the direction of the jackass. Unfortunately, he stepped back empty-handed.

“What?” Dyer didn’t know why he bothered to ask. The answer was obvious.

“Evidently our little lady is an escape artist.”

Lottie hurried over beside them, still poking pins into her hair. “You mean Sugar?”

Newt nodded. “She’s gotten loose.”

“Or maybe that horrible Mr. Johnson stole her.” She lowered her hands and looked up at Dyer as though she expected him to
go chasing after them.

“Pray tell, Miss Mace, why would Johnson steal a jackass?”

“Why, to escape, of course.”

Dyer nodded his head as he tried to picture one
250-pound jackass riding another. It wasn’t a pretty sight. “I doubt Johnson stole Sugar.” He walked away, but not without
adding, “Though he might have eaten her.”

She gasped. “You don’t think . . .”

“I’m kidding.” He grinned and handed her a piece of cheese. “Our biggest concern right now, however, is not the fate of your
farting female friend.”

“What is our concern?” She accepted the cheese and waited.

“We have to figure out how to get you to St. Louis.”

“We’ll walk.”

Well, hell. Why hadn’t he thought of that? “Miss Mace, in case you’ve forgotten, your shoe is broken.”

She looked down at her feet and sighed. “I suppose I could take it off.”

“I suppose you could, but that wouldn’t help our dilemma any.”

He motioned for her to sit on a log while he knelt in front of her to examine her shoe. She gingerly lifted her hem, careful
to keep her calf covered. It seemed ridiculous under the circumstances, but if it made her feel better, so be it. He set her
foot on his thigh to look at the bedraggled shoe more closely. Her hem slid up her leg enough for him to see the dried blood
still caked on her skin. It bothered him more than it should have.

“Newt?”

“Yeah?”

“Is there any water in the canteen?”

Newt brought it over and handed it to Dyer. “Some.”

Dyer un tucked the shirttail from his pants and tore a
strip from around the bottom. He poured some water on the fabric and wiped it against her cuts.

“I’m all right.”

Her protest would have been more effective if she hadn’t winced. He probably would have been more effective too. He stopped
and looked at her face, locking gazes with her, and for a moment, he forgot to speak.

Then he forced his mouth to work. “Did I hurt you?”

“No,” she mouthed, and suddenly the soft curve of her calf felt painfully intimate in his hand.

Newt cleared his throat. “Can you fix the shoe?”

Dyer blinked and forced his attention back to the damn shoe.

“Sure.”

He took the strip of fabric and wrapped it around her instep, careful to secure it so the shoe wouldn’t flap against her foot.

She stood and took a few practice steps before she smiled up at him. “Perfect.”

The shoe was perfect.

Everything else had gone to Hell.

In less than two days, she was going to lose the tournament, then disappear from his life forever. Of course, that was what
he’d wanted. She’d been a royal pain in the ass from the first moment he’d met her. Nagging about lessons, needing to be rescued
at every whipstitch. Batting those big green eyes at him and, let’s not forget, dragging him around by his balls. The ball
dragging he would not miss one bit.

And worst of all, she had distracted him to no end. There had actually been days,
entire days
, when he had
forgotten about the bastard who’d killed his family. Soon that nonsense would be over.

In two days, he’d be back on his own, and little Miss Lottie Mace would be out of his life for good.

Hell.

What luck! The next little town had a riverboat heading to St. Louis, and there was room on board for all three of them. It
was wonderful. Lottie didn’t want to admit it, but her shoe gave her fits, and her gown was too heavy for all that walking,
not to mention the heat.

So why wasn’t Newt smiling? “They’re leaving in about an hour. We should be in St. Louis by morning.”

“You mean the captain is going to travel at night? Isn’t he afraid of mud flats?” She’d had enough experience with those not
to want a repeat.

Newt finally smiled and said, “This boat is much smaller than the
Belle
. She should ride above most any flats.”

It was hard not to notice the boat was smaller than the
Belle
. As far as she could see, there were only two decks, and they appeared to be full of cargo. A few men loaded wood from the
riverbank as a crusty older gentleman—she assumed he was the captain—walked around barking orders. But she couldn’t find any
other passengers.

Uh oh.

“Umm, Newt?”

He stood with his hands in his pockets, whistling as he looked out over the river.

“This isn’t a passenger boat, is it?” she asked.

He stopped whistling and grinned sheepishly. “I don’t believe it is.”

“Where are we going to sleep?”

Dyer took that opportunity to return from wherever he had wondered off to. “I found an area at the back of the boat where
there’s an overhang for shelter.”

She raised her brow. “An overhang?”

Newt winked. “Think of it as an adventure.”

As if she hadn’t had enough of those for two lifetimes. “We have to sleep outside on the deck?”

“Last night we slept out under the stars.” Dyer’s reminder didn’t really make things better.

“But—”

“
And
here there’s no crazy, donkey-eating man with a gun.”

He had a good point with that one. She sighed. “Well at least it’s not raining.”

God had a sense of humor. It showed itself at the most unusual times, but even at the risk of being disrespectful, sometimes
she didn’t think it was all that humorous. The sudden rumble of thunder clearly marked this as one of those times.

Dyer grabbed her hand, hurrying her to the overhang. It was no more than four feet high and quite narrow. Newt crawled in
first, leaving a space between a pole and the side of the boat for Lottie and Dyer. The space was tight, and the only way
they could both fit was for Dyer to wrap his arm around her shoulders and pull her against his chest.