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A Woman's Nature
A Woman's Nature
A Woman's Nature
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A Woman's Nature

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Jesse Lacorte is a cattle rancher and horse breeder from Colorado. Returning home from a trail drive to Dodge City Kansas, Jesse stumbles upon the assault of a young woman on the side of a mountain in the middle of nowhere; the next ten minutes will change Jesse's life forever. The girl can't be left in the forest alone, so Jesse takes her to the ranch, knowing nothing about her but her name, Kate. Jesse unwillingly falls for the mysterious Kate, a lovely woman with bright copper hair and big blue eyes. But Kate isn't the only one with secrets. All the secrets will have to be revealed before they can become true partners. It will be a hard fight for Jesse to keep Kate safe within Redwing Valley.

LanguageEnglish
PublisherAngie Lambert
Release dateAug 31, 2014
ISBN9781310032110
A Woman's Nature

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Rating: 4.411764705882353 out of 5 stars
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  • Rating: 5 out of 5 stars
    5/5
    I loved the story. A story about how strong women can be in difficult times. I’m eagerly waiting for the sequel
  • Rating: 3 out of 5 stars
    3/5
    Not a bad read. The beginning held me pretty quickly and the ending was just as captivating. The middle I feel dragged a bit and I found myself skimming here and there to get somewhere. Also got confused at times who was talking and what part in time I was in. Regardless, I did enjoy it so 3* it gets.

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A Woman's Nature - Angie Lambert

128

A Woman’s Nature

Angie Lambert

Published by Angelia Lambert at Smashwords

Text Copyright Angelia Lambert 2014

All Rights Reserved

This book is entirely a work of fiction.

Any and all similarities to any person, living or dead

is coincidental and unintentional.

***

This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each reader. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Nature knows no indecencies; man invents them.

-Mark Twain

Chapter 1

McNeill Pass, Colorado

June 1879

Whoa, Buck. What the hell was that? A rider held the reins in one hand as the stallion turned to look behind them. Was that a scream?

It was a warm afternoon and the crickets, frogs, and birds had a song of their own to sing. The wind contributed the music as fir and spruce leaves waved in the breeze and the tall Ponderosa pines swayed.

A sudden loud snap split the air. The crack of a gunshot was a definite silencer; no living creature stirred for what seemed like minutes, followed by what sounded like another scream. The sound was a little distance away, maybe only a tenth of a mile, two tenths at the most, back down the trail. The rider tensed and looked around, seeing nothing

In the cool wind flying over the rounded top of the hill, they thought the low wailing sound echoing around them was their imagination. The buckskin stallion pricked his black ears forward and stamped his black hooves nervously on the rocky soil, blowing the air hard through flaring nostrils before tossing his majestic head and smelling in the direction of the sound. The rider leaned close to the horse’s neck, rubbing a leather gloved hand under the black mane.

You heard it too, Buck. It’s close, but where did it come from?

The skin of the horse quivered and jerked as they listened. There it was again; faint in the swirling wind but definitely a woman’s cry. For a half a minute, steely gray eyes scanned the forest floor from the saddle, long legs standing in the stirrups. The sun was beginning to throw shadows into the forest and since McNeill Pass was on the northeastern side of the mountains, twilight descended earlier in the day. The swaying trees added to the semi-darkness, the long black shadows mingling with the others.

The rider had almost convinced themselves that they hadn’t heard anything; the sound of breaking trees or rocks falling could mimic the sound of gunfire. They tightened the rein about to turn the horse toward home, but they heard the scream again.

That was no bobcat either, they whispered, trying to discern which direction the sound came from. Just as they looked behind them, the horse jerked the rein back and they both heard the very distinct scream of a woman coming closer.

Go!

The smooth side of leather boot heels tapped the stallion’s ribs and he dashed forward. Running with a tremendous ground covering stride, he pushed hard through pines and cottonwoods over a creek, which ran around the base of the little hills. Some would consider the speed with which the horse moved reckless but this was a mountain horse; he was used to working the steep slopes, a barrel-chest and wide girth told of his strength and endurance. He gathered his legs under him and pounded across the forest floor.

The gray eyes of the rider continued to scan the area as the horse crossed the sandy banks and they turned between two hills into a short ravine.

Probably just a rancher’s girl, cornered by a lone wolf or bear, thought the rider and pressed their knees into the side of the horses heaving ribs, allowing Buck’s keen smell and senses to propel them into the next line of blue spruce, ducking under the flying tree limbs and jumping fallen logs and rocks. As Buck ran, the rider ripped a lever-action Winchester ’73 rifle from a saddle boot. One more scream and they were on top of the scene in seconds.

The reins were pulled tight again as the horse stopped quickly on the edge of a ridge, skidding in the pine needles that covered the forest floor. The kid was caught by wolves all right, but they were wolves of the two-legged variety. Three men were chasing a girl up the short slope and into a clearing surrounded by white barked aspens; her blue riding skirts and red-gold hair were flying as she tried to maintain her balance to run up the hill in the rider’s direction.

Come back here, you little bitch, one of the men screamed after her as he reached for her skirt, stumbling in the process.

In most instances, decent women alone in the west were safe; violence against a woman was the worst offence possible and didn’t happen very often. The rape or murder of a woman in the west could spur law officers into a furious frenzy because it was considered that a man who had the ill manners to hurt a member of the weaker sex was a true coward. And this was not a friendly interaction.

Ahh, goddammit! the rider growled only pausing for a second, turning the horse in a complete circle. I need this like I need another hole in my head. Let’s run ‘em down.

The rider put the stallion into motion again and Buck laid his ears back, twisted around a boulder, and headed down the slope toward the girl.

The next time the man reached for the girl, he caught her left wrist and she twirled to face him; he fell heavily on top of her and slapped her. His two companions were close behind him as he tore her blouse, exposing a pale-skinned breast. A second man held a leather booted foot in his grasp, trying to hold the fighting woman. They were cackling and laughing at her struggles and the third man was waiting for a chance to jump in without being hit or kicked. The girl gave the first man a stinging blow across his face with her quirt and he howled before slapping her a second time.

The three men were so intent on what they were doing, that only the third man looked up at the sound of hooves bearing down on them as the rider fired a shot into the bark of the nearest tree from a fifty yards out. All three men froze at first but the third one had the audacity to jerk out a heavy revolver and the rider shot him in the center of his chest at close range. As the dead man tumbled backward, he knocked the second man to the ground and he was forced to give up his hold on the woman’s ankle.

The horse didn’t slow down as the rider yelled to the woman, Don’t move girl!

The jumping horse hit the first man in the back with a fore hoof as he tried to stand to look in the rider’s direction; he was knocked away from the screaming woman, who covered her face with her hands, curling into a ball on her side. The hooves cleared the woman’s body easily as the lever action of the rifle was yanked again to eject the empty shell and place another forty-five caliber round in the chamber. The horse wheeled in a narrow loop and charged at the men again, closing the distance quickly. When the second man rolled out from under his dead companion, he too drew a pistol to fire at the rider. Quick as light, the rider had the rifle raised to their right shoulder again.

Don’t you do it! the rider yelled.

The man paid no attention, firing his gun wildly at the horse. Again, the rider fired, hitting the right thigh of the man, who flailed about and dropped to the ground. The man tried to raise the gun again as he sat upright.

Stay down! I mean it!

The horse was closing in on him but he raised the pistol anyway. The rider fired again; blood exploded from the man’s chest as he fell backwards.

The first man, who had tackled and hit the girl, was trying to limp away down the slope, but the rider was having none of it; they wheeled the horse again, cutting off the path of escape and pointed the rifle at the man, sitting bolt upright and still in the saddle as the horse’s big chest heaved slightly.

It’s up to you. Don’t think I won’t kill you; your friends will tell you different, the rider calmly informed him. What the hell was that all about?

That weren’t none of your business. She’s just a whore from town anyway. What the fuck is it to you?

The assailant tried to hold the ribs on his left side and an angry welt growing across his left jaw from the blow dealt him by the girl. When he fell to the ground, he head-butted a tree and had a large abrasion across his forehead with bark and debris sticking to the wound. His dirty clothes were sweat stained and covered in litter from the forest floor. He suddenly bent over clutching his side, breathing heavily.

The closest town is thirty miles; how did she get out here?

That ain’t none of your business neither. Maybe she rode out here with us, the man answered, sneering.

I doubt that. Throw that gun over here.

The man laughed, I don’t think I will.

Give up the revolver. Now.

By God, I’ll not give my Colt to a— he hollered as he raised the weapon, but the rider shot him in the center of his chest. Working the lever again, they realized the rifle magazine contained only one more round.

The rider watched the coward stagger and fall but reloaded the Winchester before stepping down from the horse; the leather of the saddle and the chaps on the long legs of the rider creaked together as they moved slowly to the ground. The leather gloves whispered, tightening around the grips of the rifle as the rider moved toward the man, who coughed then sputtered with bloody foam bubbling from his mouth.

All three men lay silent and still. Watching the corpses closely and exhaling, the rider walked sideways toward the girl.

Her face was pale and a thin line of blood trickled down her chin as she sat on the ground stunned. Her skirts were bunched around her knees, which were still bent and she was leaning to the right side with her right arm propping her up. The torn blouse was covered in dirt on the back with the right sleeve barely hanging on. The rider knelt next to the girl and spoke to her.

Ma’am? Are you all right?

The woman looked understandably bewildered and dazed before beginning to cry, covering her mouth with her left hand, her shoulders shaking. She was offered a clean handkerchief but she only stared at it, so the rider wiped the blood from her face. She was a young thing, maybe twenty years old but more than likely only eighteen or nineteen. Her reddish-gold hair tumbled in waves over her shoulders and the bright blue eyes produced tears at a frightening rate. A small oval face with a pert little nose looked up at the rider and suddenly alarmed, wondering if she needed to run again but slowly realized this wasn’t one of those men. She covered her face with her hands again and cried harder.

Buck?

The horse walked over and the rescuer took a canteen off the pommel of the saddle to offer her some water.

Honey, hold this canteen and drink a little.

The girl took a small swallow of the water before handing it back. The girl looked up again in abject misery and realizing that she was almost naked from the waist up, she tried to pull the pieces of her clothes together. So the rider replaced the canteen and a new shirt was pulled out of one of the saddlebags, a white tunic purchased the day before. Holding up the girl’s arms for her, they pulled the shirt over her head and buttoned it.

What’s your name, honey? The voice was low and soft but it had little effect on the girl and the questions went unanswered. Do you have a horse somewhere? How did you get out here? Who were they? What happened that they were after you?

The rider stood and with hands on their hips, they looked down the hill through the aspens and toward a meadow that stretched east into the plains, gray eyes scanning and finding no immediate danger or help. There was probably a camp or horses close by but there might be more men wondering what all the shooting was about and on their way toward them. The cawing of a nearby crow shattered the silence, the screeching of a jay followed and then the regular forest noises resumed.

Goddammit! they cursed softly. Can’t leave her here and I should have just enough daylight to get home if we go now. Buck? Double duty for you, old buddy.

The big horse raised his head from his grazing and walked back to the rider, who was in the process of helping the girl stand. With a shiver and trembling in the rider’s arms, she looked up into their face. The rider tenderly brushed a piece of grass from her face.

It’s all right, honey. I won’t hurt you, but I should get you out of here.

The rider’s voice was calm and soothing; satisfied she was safe, she allowed the rider to help her into the saddle. After stopping at the creek again to water the horse, the rider reset a dark broad-brimmed hat on their head, climbed into the saddle behind the girl, and held her as the horse walked into the hills again.

Chapter 2

The girl had nothing to say during most of the trip to the valley but she had told the rider her name was Kate, just Kate; no last name, origin or destination.

But what is your name? the girl asked softly.

After a while, the rider detected a discomfort in the way the girl was sitting in the saddle, forward and too close to the pommel. They stopped momentarily to rest and the rider repacked some things behind the saddle. A folded blanket was thrown across the rider’s lap when they were ready to ride again. Buck stood next to a tree stump as the rider took the girl’s hand, she was steadied to step onto the stump and raised back into the saddle with a steady arm; she turned to the side and had a more comfortable seat on the blanket with both legs hanging off the left side of the horse.

The rider spoke softly to the girl as they tried to offer her what comfort they could, a drink of water now and then or a chance to shift positions on the blanket; they had intended on eating when they got home and so had no jerky or biscuits to offer.

We are only an hour away from home, they said softly, but girl remained quiet.

She looked up several times at the profile above her and the square jaw under the shadow of the hat brim hid a lot of the face, but occasionally the rider looked down and smiled with deep gray eyes. The face above her was young with a smooth, olive complexion and a scar on the lower right jaw. The rider smelled clean, like pine or spruce. The slow, rocking gait of the horse with the gentle strength of the arm around her comforted her and she found herself wanting to doze.

Halfway home, the rider looked down, surprised to see the girl lean her head on their shoulder and her eyes closed.

Goodness but she’s a lovely thing.

Buck and his passengers walked through a line of Piñon pines and fir trees into a clearing on a ridge; the rider stopped a moment. The sight of this familiar valley always had the same effect on them; it was home. Buck raised his head and sniffed the air with a low chuckle.

Looking southwest, Redwing Valley ran from the Pueblo River on the north and along the Sangre de Cristo Mountains on the west. Running the twenty-two mile length of Rope Creek, twenty-seven thousand acres of lush green pastureland stretched southeast toward Greenhorn Mountain. Another fifteen thousand acres of timber covered the mountain slopes surrounding the valley. The ranch house and barns were nestled in the northwest corner of the valley overlooking the ranch. The sun was beginning to drop behind Burgundy Peak at the northern tip of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains; with snow still clinging to the shaded northern cliffs, the tall peaks peered over the trees from more than eight thousand feet above the valley floor. A large lake filled with the run-off from the melted mountain snows shimmered in the lower end of the valley, overflowing its banks.

Pure stands of Quaking Aspens and Narrowleaf Cottonwoods speckled the valley in bursts of bright green compared to the blue-green of the spruce and fir trees. The sunlight bathed the timber in wedges and long diamond areas of light along the eastern Greenhorn slopes. The green-black Limber and Bristlecone pines stretched up the slopes in thick, triangular groups.

The month long trails to deliver the cattle to market were never easy but necessary every year. A ten man outfit left Redwing Valley on May first, with nineteen hundred and twenty-six head of cattle, a remuda of sixty saddle horses, and a chow wagon; the three hundred and fifty mile trail went south around the foot of Greenhorn Mountain and then northeast to follow the Arkansas River across the plains to Dodge City, Kansas. No unexpected events occurred during the thirty-two day drive and mild weather helped; the outfit reached Dodge City only losing five head of cattle and one horse during the entire trip.

The ride down the long slope was easy for Buck as he chose his footing on the familiar three mile trail to the house. Descending the final twenty-five hundred feet in elevation, through the Douglas firs, Blue spruce and Ponderosa pines, into aspens, willows and cottonwoods, they rode into the pasture, loping for the corrals surrounding the ranch house. With his ears pricked forward and a soft whinny, Buck headed straight for the corrals to the west. He knew sweet grass and some oats would be waiting for him and he was tired of the trail for now; they both needed a good rest.

Other than a cook, one foreman, and eight ranch hands, the ranch stayed quiet. The men who drove the herd to Kansas were hired just for the drive. The ranch hands stayed out in line camps, working fences and moving cattle to different pastures. The winter hardy cattle were self-sustaining; the cowboys kept the bears and wolves at bay and the cattle did the rest. The heifers dropped calves to add to the numbers. All the cattle had to do was eat grass and grow.

During the summer, the cook was absent for two months to visit with her children in Fort Worth, Texas. The only reason the rider knew she was gone was because there was no smoke from the chimneys; it was dinnertime and she always made some type of fire to cook. The big log cabin looked empty with no welcoming glow of a lantern in the windows.

The rider smiled. "Hell, it’s June fourteenth already; of course

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