Stealing Her Heart, page 2
part #1 of Wild Hearts Series
She moved the herd into the grove and allowed them to settle into grazing and drinking with the occasional splashing of water by both adults and foals. Etta smiled. Seeing the herd relaxed and in a safe place made her happy—far happier than all the awards and accolades she and Timer had racked up together as a team.
Etta rode Timer deeper into the grove and finally dismounted. She’d been sitting in that saddle for more than twelve hours and was glad to get her feet on terra firma. Etta watched the lead mare shuffle towards her, her nostrils flaring, tail swishing back and forth. She reached out a hand gently, soothing her, “It’s okay, pretty. You trust the big guy, and he trusts me.”
Seeming to understand her, the mare snuffled and wandered away a couple of steps.
She loosened Timer’s cinch before taking the rifle out of the scabbard and resting it in a natural branch formation that could hold it securely, out of the way of any of the horses bold or curious enough to come investigate. She then finished unsaddling Timer and pulled off all of his gear, including his bridle, to allow him to go get a drink, something to eat, and to rest. The big guy had been working hard. He needed and deserved a break. He nuzzled her and then wandered out to join the wild herd.
The mare watched him go and turned to join him, but then turned back and walked up to Etta to place her muzzle in Etta’s extended and upturned palm. Etta barely breathed. It was a great sign of trust from the wild mare and silent tears trailed down Etta’s cheeks in appreciation. She always felt so honored when the horses she helped allowed her to become one with their herd, even if only for a fleeting few moments.
This, more than her riding career or work doing event planning, was who she was, deep inside. This was where she was meant to be.
Etta propped her saddle against a tree, sat down and leaned back against it. Just sitting, watching, and dozing among these magnificent creatures gave her a sense of peace and belonging that had left her the day her parents were killed in a car accident, leaving her bachelor cowboy uncle to raise her.
It was from Uncle Paul that she had learned to ride, to hunt, to fish, to fight, and to shoot. He had recognized that his niece was going to grow into a beautiful woman who would inherit her mother’s wealth and good looks and felt it important to teach her to defend herself. More than one man who couldn’t or wouldn’t understand Etta found himself sporting a black eye or a broken nose when he didn’t back off. Her uncle had more than once compared her favorably to her intrepid great-grandmother, for whom she was named.
There was a rumor her great-grandfather was none other than the infamous Sundance Kid, the romance of which Etta treasured and often thought of. If she’d been able to handpick her heritage, she couldn’t have come up with anything more amazing than a woman bold and autonomous long before her time, and a romantic cowboy criminal.
Her family history was never far from the back of her mind. When she had come into her inheritance a decade following her parents’ deaths, Etta had purchased a modest ranch to raise prize winning appaloosas and the cattle that produced the prized Wagyu beef. Etta had taken on a major remodeling of the old ranch-style house and turned it into a sprawling farm home complete with wraparound porch and two primary suites. Uncle Paul had been installed as foreman, even though he sometimes chafed at having to follow the strict protocols for raising the prized Japanese cattle.
He, in turn, had hired a housekeeper renowned for her cooking skills to keep the house and all those who lived and worked on the ranch in good health and spirits. The woman who would soon become her Auntie Jo had quickly taught manners to Uncle Paul and the cowboys who worked on the ranch. Given what Etta had seen one night when she came home early from college, Uncle Paul had taught the formidable housekeeper a few lessons of his own.
Etta had been shocked to see the woman, who kowtowed to no man, pulled over her uncle’s knee, skirt flipped up over her back, panties pulled down and her uncle’s hand being applied in rapid and hard succession to her backside. Uncle Paul, who had never raised his hand to Etta, seemed not to care as Jo’s bottom went from lily white, to pink, and then to red. Before Etta could intervene, it was over.
Etta told herself she should look away, but she was fascinated. Etta then watched as her Uncle Paul slipped his hand between Jo’s legs and began to work his fingers in and out of her. From the way Jo was squirming, Etta suspected that he was working on getting her aroused and that Jo was enjoying his attentions—and likely not for the first time.
After finishing his sound spanking of her, Uncle Paul had gathered Jo into his lap to be comforted and fondled more blatantly. His hand moved from between Jo’s legs, up her torso to unfasten first her shirt and then her bra. His hands began to caress her breasts and trace delicate circles around her nipples, which even from a distance Etta could see had hardened at his touch. It was hard to reconcile the hand that was bringing the woman great pleasure, so gentle and loving, was the same one that had been intent on inflicting punishment to her behind. Jo responded by kissing him passionately, arching her back and wantonly opening her legs to better facilitate his touch.
Backing away quietly, Etta left the ranch for a few hours only to arrive later that evening making a loud entrance. Etta wondered how she could have missed that they had become lovers. It wasn’t long after Etta’s impromptu realization that Paul made Jo his bride.
Although initially embarrassed and horrified, the image of her beloved Uncle Paul spanking a woman and then obviously preparing her to have sex with him was one that had stayed with her from that day forward. The image had left her with a confused mixture of lust, longing and dismay. She considered herself a strong, independent woman, and had always seen Jo as the same. Part of her couldn’t understand why such behavior would be appealing in a relationship, but even more was why it was a turn-on for Jo… or for her.
Another part of herself—a part she didn’t allow much conscious access to—knew exactly why it was enticing. She was intelligent enough to recognize Jo’s apparent submission to her uncle as a tradeoff, of sorts. It was likely the only time Jo allowed herself to concede to anyone and allowed someone else to make the tough calls and decisions that came with being independent and alone.
It was tiresome, always having to be the strong, capable one. Never needing anyone else or depending on a strength other than her own. Yes, Etta understood, far more than she really wanted to. Imagining herself with a man of her own doing the same to her was often the stuff of which her fantasies were made, although not a thing she would ever admit out loud to anyone.
Although it was awkward, Etta finally worked up the courage to ask the woman who had by then become a second mother to her about what she’d seen and discover more about the balance of power that existed in such relationships. Auntie Jo had laughed in a deep, feminine way and assured her niece that it had been deserved; the sting from the spanking generally didn’t last more than a day or two; and the lovemaking that followed was well worth it.
Upon further discussion, Etta had learned that both Uncle Paul and Auntie Jo believed it was the secret to a happy marriage between two strong personalities. It allowed him to express the level of his displeasure at whatever she had done—normally something she’d been warned not to do or that was dangerous. It allowed her to be forgiven for doing it and thereby release any guilt over having done it. It allowed the air to be cleared between them, reestablishing positive, sexy relations.
Her aunt had followed that explanation with an expression that she felt sorry for women who didn’t have a man strong enough or who cared enough to spank them. Her aunt believed that not being able to resolve things promoted festering resentment and anger, which ultimately destroyed the relationship.
When Etta said nothing, Auntie Jo had hugged her, looked her right in the eye and said, “There is nothing like a good spanking to make a man’s cock hard as a rock and a woman’s pussy soft, wet, and yielding.”
“Oh, my God. TMI, Auntie Jo. TMI.” Etta had covered her eyes and groaned.
Auntie Jo had laughed at Etta’s horrified expression, hugged her again and finished with, “My hope for you is that you’ll find a man as wonderful as your Uncle Paul who will be strong enough to tame you.”
Although taken aback by her aunt’s forthright statements, Etta couldn’t help but secretly hope for the same.
Derrick Hobson kept his men well-hidden but had watched as Etta Ross had moved the herd from the track they’d been on to one which would lead to land owned and controlled by the BLM. No one needed to tell him that’s where the do-gooder world champion was taking the wild mustangs. It was a federal offense to remove wild or feral horses from BLM land without a permit or approval and neither would be given if the federal flunkies knew the horses were headed for slaughter in Mexico.
Hobson failed to understand the public’s romance with feral horses. They were not, in his opinion, part of the great American West story. They were pests, pure and simple. They destroyed valuable grazing grounds and contributed absolutely nothing to anyone.
The government of Mexico saw them for what they were— a good alternative meat source. Hobson had found by trapping the horses outside of the BLM lands there was a huge profit to be made. All he had to do was round them up, herd them onto crowded trailers, and sneak them across the border into Mexico. There he could sell them to the closest slaughterhouse, collect his money, and go back home. It was tough, manual work, but paid a damn sight better than working as a ranch hand or day laborer.
Especially given the secondary arrangement he had with a powerful man who liked to keep to the shadows. Or was it primary? It was far more lucrative and important, that was certain.
The man whom Hobson was speaking with on his cell was doing a fair job of reminding him that their end game was about more than a bunch of ragtag mustangs.
As if he’d ever forget.
“I don’t give a damn about those mangy mustangs. You’d better keep in mind that they’re only window dressing for your real cargo.”
“I’m well aware of that,” said Hobson.
“The worst those damn horses will do is bite or kick you. A bullet to your gut will have a lot more kick."
The cargo he and his men moved from Mexico through Texas to points north, east, and west was backed by powerful men who had no interest in seeing their profits minimized.
“We have a schedule to keep,” he told Hobson. “That means those trucks had better be in Mexico and ready to load at the appointed time.”
“You don’t need to worry,” Hobson replied, surly gaze fixed on Etta and the herd.
“Yeah. You just keep that in mind. My people don’t like delays. I trust I don’t need to remind you of the federale and his failure and what that got him.”
“It’s under control,” Hobson said, and disconnected. His gaze grew narrow as he watched the woman he would have to deal with.
Ross and Hobson had crossed paths more than once. Hobson despised the college-educated, world champion beauty. She had wealth and privilege and yet she wanted to steal his livelihood so those beasts could ruin good land and do nothing to help anyone. And she wasn’t above using a gun to enforce her liberal, hoity-toity views.
She was as bad as that other do gooder over in Arizona, Willa Reynolds. Reynolds had become so much of a pest that he’d moved his operation from the four corners area to here in Texas.
The last time he’d attempted to take a herd Ross was trying to lead to BLM land after he’d risked a lot to drive them off it in the first place, she’d drawn that rifle out of its scabbard and fired on him and his men. She’d sent three of them to a hospital—all south of the border—and him to a seedy physician to get a slug dug out of his shoulder. The shoulder still bothered him when it rained or when he had to use it too much. He suspected the physician had nicked a nerve or damaged the surrounding muscle in some way.
He’d been more worried about his contact than his shoulder, and he’d had to do a lot of damage control to assure the man that no one knew who he was. Hobson reasoned that even if someone had seen them together, which was highly unlikely, it was doubtful they could identify him or understand his role and relationship with Hobson.
He was pretty certain Ross hadn’t seen him. All they were to her were a bunch of rustlers.
Hobson used his cell phone to call the men who were waiting with the tractor trailers. He figured he had just about enough time to get them into place and set up the temporary fence panels they’d use to drive the herd into the trailers. Once he set that part of his plan in motion, Hobson moved his men into position. All he had to do now was stampede the herd in the direction he wanted while that bitch was taking a nap. She wouldn’t be able to respond quickly enough when all hell broke loose. By the time she was able to alert anyone, he and the mustangs would be long gone.
Chapter 3
The sharp report of several rifles and the sounds of men shouting as they ran towards the herd startled Etta awake. As Hobson had guessed, she didn’t have time to retrieve her own rifle or do anything before the herd, including Timer, had been stampeded across the stream and back towards open range.
“Shit!” Etta said, angry at what she considered her own stupidity for not leaving the rifle loaded and by her hand as she dozed.
Worse yet, the rustlers had Timer with them. Her beautiful, loyal gelding was gone.
As she leapt to her feet, her shoulder seemed to jerk back of its own accord and she felt a sharp pain in her right shoulder. There was a black hole in her shirt and blood was beginning to seep through the cloth. Etta could tell from the way she was bleeding that no major artery had been hit; it was just a flesh wound. She reached under the shirt and ripped off part of the t-shirt she had been wearing and made it into a bandage of sorts. The damn thing hurt like hell and Etta wondered why when you saw something like this on television, the actors made it seem like no big deal. Closing her eyes for a brief moment to recenter, she forced herself to ignore the pain, so she could focus on what to do next.
Etta took the field glasses from her pack and saw the riders chasing the horses to the top of the small crest of the ravine and beyond. Her eyes settled on Hobson. Damn it! She knew it had to be Hobson. That damned rustler had shot her on purpose to even the score between them. She vowed if she ever had him in her rifle sights again, she’d do a hell of a lot more than put a bullet in the fleshy part of his shoulder.
She regretted her decision to leave her cell phone in her truck. She’d have to determine the closest ranch or town in order to report the theft and get her shoulder tended to. She took some comfort in knowing that by not separating Timer from the herd, Hobson had just committed grand theft. The gelding was insured for more than eighty thousand dollars, and she was quite certain the insurance company would want to join her in putting out a reward for his safe return. Etta hid her saddle and the rest of her gear in a group of bushes, covering them as best she could. She picked up her rifle, put her hat on her head and headed in the same direction she’d been going.
While her plan to move the herd had included avoiding coming too close to any ranches or other signs of civilization, she thought she remembered a shack of some sort being not too far off the trail. With any luck, it would have a radio or other communicative device she could use to get help. As she looked at her shoulder and saw the blood beginning to stain the top layer of the make-shift bandage, she hoped it might also have some first-aid supplies.
Regardless, her mission had now changed slightly and was of utmost priority. Fuck getting shot. Screw the fact that it hurt like a bitch. Her beloved Timer was now what was most important. She wouldn’t rest until she had him safely back.
Brody’s head snapped around at the sound of gunshots. He reined Lassie to a stop so he could ascertain the direction from which they’d come. After doing so, he turned the mare sharply around and headed off at a hard gallop in the direction the sound had come. This wasn’t a shooting range. No one should be firing shots out here for any reason. He hoped it was just some kids blowing off steam, but something in his gut told him it wasn’t. And his gut was seldom wrong.
As Brody reached the top of the ravine, he saw a small band of wild horses being pursued by a group of riders brandishing rifles and lariats driving them at a fast pace. He started to pursue them when the glint of sunlight from something reflective caught his eye. He stopped Lassie and pulled out his field glasses to see if he could figure out what had caught the sun and his eye.
The sun glinted off the metal of a rifle, tucked securely against the tall, curvy framework of none other than Etta Ross.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” Brody said to himself.
It appeared that Brad’s wife’s theory that the unknown person who had been helping the mustangs was Etta Ross was correct. While most of those in law enforcement believed whoever was responsible didn’t really break the law, they most certainly skirted it. The most widely accepted school of thought among the Rangers was that it was a small group of environmental activists, probably men.
Because the person working with the mustangs had never harmed anyone, stolen anything, or damaged anyone’s property, the Rangers tended to look the other way. Brody couldn’t help but think Jenny was going to give Brad hell when she was proved right. He shook his head.
This was the same Etta Ross who was considered to be one of the most eligible beauties in South Texas and something of an enigma. She was a multiple world champion on three different horses, preferring to retire her horses when their show careers were over as opposed to selling them at great profit.
