LITMIR.BIZ

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I look incapable of fending for myself or setting up a temporary tent until I can hire someone to build my house?” Muriel challenged sharply. “I’ll have you know that I managed to work tirelessly as a seamstress and care for my ailing mother after my father died. We had to sell our farm and move into a run-down boardinghouse in town, but I did what had to be done until Mother passed on last winter. I long for what I had as a child. To that end I have saved every spare cent to make the run and to pay for farm improvements after I stake my claim!” Her voice rose indignantly. “I assure you, Captain High-and-Mighty Holbrook, this is not a whim!”

      She dragged in a deep breath, crossed her arms over her chest and stared him down. “I doubt you know what it’s like to scratch and claw, Captain, but I do. Necessity demanded it. I’m chasing my long-held dream and it doesn’t include taking a husband who sees me as his cook, housekeeper, seamstress and personal harlot—”

      Muriel clamped both hands over her mouth to halt her runaway tongue. The captain’s eyes nearly popped from their sockets. Josie burst out laughing.

      Holbrook was first to regain his composure. He shifted on his horse, then looked down his patrician nose at Muriel. “Are you quite finished spouting comments that are considered improper in mixed company? If you had any manners you would know that.”

      Josie’s gaze bounced from Muriel to the captain while the two exchanged blistering glares. They were so sensitive to what the other one said and did that they set off intense reactions in each other.

      Ordinarily, Muriel took life in stride, as Josie did. A determined woman, she dealt efficiently with the throng of men hounding her with proposals. But poof! The captain arrived on the scene and Muriel bristled with hostility.

      Josie had never been interested enough in a man to react to his words and glances the way Muriel did with Grant Holbrook. To Josie, the bothersome male masses were one more difficult obstacle to overcome on her way to establishing her own home and ranch in the soon-to-be-opened territory.

      When Muriel wheeled around and stamped off, the captain scowled sourly, Josie saw. She hurried to catch up with her friend. “Feel better, now that you’ve put the commander in his place?”

      “Much, thank you,” Muriel insisted, then dragged in a restorative breath. “Do you see why that arrogant soldier annoys me so much?”

      “No, I don’t,” she said honestly.

      Her friend stopped in her tracks to gape at her. “You don’t think he’s irritating beyond belief?”

      “If you say so …” Josie’s voice trailed off when four men on the boardwalk spotted them. All smiles and eager anticipation, they surged forward like an ocean wave. But then she grinned, as a brilliant idea struck her. “Maybe we’re going about this the wrong way. Maybe we should accept a marriage proposal.”

      Muriel stared at her as if she had vines sprouting from her ears. “Are you out of your mind?”

      “Think about it.” Josie eyed the gaggle of men scurrying toward them. “If we accept a proposal we will be off the marriage market.”

      A slow smile curved Muriel’s lips. “You’re right….” Then she frowned disconcertedly. “But how do we discard our unwanted fiancés after they serve their purpose? Surely we aren’t actually going to marry them.”

      “No, of course not. We’ll just get a bad case of cold feet the morning of the run … while emotions are running high,” Josie suggested, warming to her bright idea.

      “We can claim it is too much to deal with, too rapidly,” Muriel suggested enthusiastically.

      “Other prospective suitors won’t hear that we called off the betrothals until after we claim our land,” Josie continued. “By then, the men will be too busy setting up housekeeping to bother us. For a while at least.”

      Muriel stared speculatively at the approaching group. “Maybe I’ll agree to the first proposal tossed at me before lunch. Someone other than the infuriating, uppity captain, who was likely born with a silver spoon in his mouth and descended from a long line of self-important military martinets.”

      Josie studied her friend for a thoughtful moment. “The way you’re carrying on, I’m beginning to think the captain’s proposal is the one you secretly want to accept.”

      She gasped in outrage. “Holbrook is the last man on earth I’d want to marry!”

      Josie smiled impishly. “Well, then, propose to him, since you have no intention of keeping him. If he accepts, then you will have the wicked satisfaction of jilting him before you leave him choking in your dust on the day of the run.”

      Muriel snickered wryly. “Now I know why I befriended you. You are clever and intelligent. That’s an interesting notion—”

      It was all she had time to say before the four cowboys descended, spewing the same nauseating flattery Josie and Muriel had heard for three continuous weeks.

      Solomon Tremain led a string of a dozen prize horses into town—and drew an immediate crowd, as usual. Would-be settlers were eager to purchase swift, powerful steeds to outrun the other hopeful contestants and reach their promised land. This was Sol’s third trip to the town sitting on the eastern border of Cheyenne-Arapaho territory—which was about to be overrun by land-hungry whites.

      Sol gnashed his teeth when the ever-constant conflict of his half white, half Cheyenne heritage rose within him. Although his physical appearance was more like his father’s than his Indian mother’s, Sol was Cheyenne at heart. He resented the white intrusion on the tribe’s hunting grounds and sacred sites.

      Unfortunately, restraining the greedy white settlers was like holding back floodwaters. At least Sol was in a position to help his people—as much as they could be helped when the fickle government approved another land run in Indian Territory. The Twin Territories—Oklahoma and Indian—he silently corrected, and scowled.

      From the time Sol became a member of the elite, highly trained fighting force known as the Wolf Warriors, within the special clan called the Bowstring Society, he had been involved in law enforcement and held positions of authority. He’d gone on to join the Lighthorse Police of the Cheyenne Nation, and then was handpicked as one of Judge Isaac Parker’s Deputy U.S. Marshals. Sol dealt with outlaws, Indian haters, greedy ranchers and pesky squatters that encroached on tribal property.

      This assignment demanded that he pose as a horse trader, to gain the confidence of shysters and gather incriminating evidence to ensure convictions. Land runs were breeding grounds for trouble, and Sol was well aware of the underhanded tactics often employed in acquiring property, such as the schemes used during the Runs of ’89 and ’91.

      If Sol had his way, all offenders would be watching this upcoming run from the stockade at Fort Reno. Then again, there wouldn’t be a run if he had his druthers. Which he didn’t.

      Sol focused his attention on the men congregating around him, and promptly sold a half-dozen horses. When the group dispersed, he looked up to see his local contact, Captain Grant Holbrook, sitting atop his horse, staring off into space.

      Sol followed the captain’s gaze to two women surrounded by four cowboys. Then three more men joined the crowd and another two. The scene reminded Sol of honeybees buzzing around a hive.

      “Must be nice to attract so much attention,” he said with a chuckle. “If women flocked to me the way men flock to those two ladies, I’d be a happy man.”

      “What?” Holbrook jerked to attention, then glanced sideways at Sol.

      “I said those women must be something special.”

      “Those two?” Grant snorted. “They can fend off their hordes of admirers by themselves for all I care.”

      Sol raised a brow, then scrutinized his friend, who was two years his junior. “Am I missing something here?”

      “Not

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