The Rustler's Bride Read Online Free PDF Page B

out again. Instead of moving on to the next stall along the row, he halted in front of her. He seemed to tower over her. Victoria’s mouth went dry. Her pulse quickened.
    “It’s no good, Victoria,” he said. “Your father hates me, and for a reason. I’m a rustler. There is no greater enemy to a rancher than a man who steals his cattle. It’s best if you keep out of my way, and I’ll keep out of yours.” He pulled off one stained leather glove and reached out, as if to touch her face, or perhaps her hair, but then he seemed to think better of it and withdrew his hand.
    He pulled the glove back on. When he spoke again, his voice was quiet but his words were clear and firm. “I owe my life to you, and that means I need to put your honor above any dark desires that might swirl around my mind when I look at you. I have little to be proud of, and I want to be proud of treating you with the respect you deserve. Don’t make it harder for me. It is hard enough as it is.”
    He turned away and resumed his chores.
    Victoria felt her body shiver with a sudden chill. If there ever had been a rejection clad in the bright mantle of honor, she’d just heard it. There was nothing she could think to do or say that would not appear foolish or desperate.
    And Declan was right.
    If she didn’t watch out, her reputation might be stained beyond repair, leaving her with no choice but to remain married to him. She would incur her father’s wrath and—if Declan chose to ride out at the end of the year anyway—it would doom her to the lonely fate of a woman who bore a man’s name but possessed nothing else of him.
    She turned around and went back into the house. It was no use chasing a dream, a vague, ill defined dream that she could not fully understand even herself. And yet, she knew that as the year went by—no, as the hours and days went by—it would never be possible for her to keep out of Declan’s way, and for him to keep out of hers.

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    Chapter Three
     
    “Hey, Beaulieu! Ayuadame. Help me.”
    Declan heard the plea and hurried across the stable yard. Flaco, one of the Mexican vaqueros was trying to lift a timber beam onto the flat roof of the cookhouse. Small and slight, aged anywhere between thirty and forty, Flaco had difficulty coping with tasks that required physical strength.
    He had wedged one end of the beam against the edge of the roof and was staggering beneath the weight of the other end that he’d propped over his shoulder. Declan crouched behind him, settled his shoulder beneath the beam and straightened his legs.
    “I’ve got it.”
    Flaco slipped away. “Gracias.” He gave Declan a broad smile. He had a pinched, rat-like face with teeth as crooked as a collapsed picket fence, but he was good natured and friendly. The others were reluctant to insult his masculinity by limiting him to easy tasks, but it appeared to Declan that such concerns were misplaced, for Flaco disliked any type of work and he seemed quite at ease with being called with a name that meant ‘skinny’.
    “Where do you want it?” Declan asked.
    Flaco pointed at a gap in the flat roof. “There.”
    Declan crouched once more, jerked his body upright and levered the timber beam up with his raised arms. A string of curses hissed out through his gritted teeth.
    “ Es dificil, si? Difficult.”
    Declan gave another grunt. “It’s all right.”
    Mrs. Flynn had caught him shirtless and had seen the damage on his body, but he didn’t want anyone else’s pity. He kept up the stream of curses as he strained his muscles to slide the beam up on the cookhouse roof.
    Cookhouse was really a misnomer. Although the roof was solid, the walls around the outdoor kitchen and eating area were made of heavy timber posts with wide gaps between them. The overall effect was one of a huge cage with an opening for a doorway at each end.
    “ Oy, oy, oy. Tu mujer. Wife. Miss Ria,” Flaco said with a lusty roll of his eyes.
    Declan