Sample Chapter THE WREN by Kristy McCaffrey

Matt reined in his horse near the main house then dismounted. He had spent all morning repairing a collapsed roof on one of the line shacks. With his stomach growling for food he was about to enter the house when he noticed Molly on horseback in the larger of the two corrals. There was someone with her he didn't recognize. Tying off his horse he began walking toward them but Logan came out of the barn, cutting him off.

"Who's that with Molly?" he asked.

Logan squinted. "Well, let's see. His name is Howie, I think. Howie Martin. Yep, that's it."

"Who is Howie Martin?" Matt asked ominously. He didn't like the gleam in his brother's eyes.

"He's workin' the Callahan ranch. Came by to return some of our beeves that wandered onto their land, so I didn't want to pass on a great opportunity."

"And what would that be?" Matt knew Logan was deliberately trying to provoke him.

"A potential suitor for Molly."

Matt stopped short and Logan just laughed. "You said we ought to marry her off," his brother added, slapping him on the back as they continued walking closer to the corral.

Molly sat on Pecos, bareback, talking to Howie while he tried to mount his horse, also without a saddle. But the youth, blond-haired and wide-eyed, couldn't seem to get the animal to settle down.

"Molly's quite a good rider," Logan said quietly, just for Matt's ears. "I suggested she teach Howie how to ride bareback. I think he's fairly taken with her, don't you? Although I wouldn't mention matrimony just yet. Wouldn't want to scare him off."

"Howie doesn't look old enough to shave yet," Matt said, irritated by Logan's meddling. What he'd said about doing right by Molly was one thing. Seeing the reality of it was something else entirely.

"Yeah, I know," Logan conceded. "That's why I asked him how old he was. He claims he's nineteen. God's truth," he added, straight-faced. "He also pointed out, in front of Molly I might add, he's making forty-five dollars a month from the Callahans. The lad seems solid."

Matt swore under his breath as Logan walked off, grinning from ear to ear.

"Howie, you've really got to calm down," Molly was saying. "If the horse won't stop moving, you won't be able to get on."

"But you jumped on yer horse while she was movin'," Howie said in exasperation.

"I don't think you're quite ready for that," she said. Her hair was gathered at the base of her neck and hidden by her hat.

Although the graceful lines of her neck and straight back caught Matt's eye, it was the glimpse of bare leg peeking from beneath a light blue skirt that drew his gaze, annoying him. It bunched up far too much.

What was she doing riding bareback in a dress anyhow?

"Molly," he said loudly.

Startled, she looked over her shoulder at him, then smiled and waved. At that moment Howie managed to hoist himself onto his horse but in mere seconds was thrown to the ground. He groaned.

"Howie? Are you all right?" Molly asked, turning her attention back to the youth. "It's all about balance. I thought you'd ridden since you were six."

"Yeah," he said, dusting off his backside as he stood, "but it's a lot easier with a saddle to hang onto."

"Howie," Matt said, "I'm sure the Callahans are wondering what happened to you. You better get on back."

"Who're you?" he asked.

"Matthew Ryan."

At that the boy's eyes widened even more. "Really? It's a great pleasure to meet you, Mr. Ryan." Howie immediately moved to the edge of the corral where Matt stood casually resting his arms on the wooden fence. Howie shook Matt's hand enthusiastically. "I've heard a lot about you, sir. You're a legend in these parts, ridin' with the Rangers. Was it really true you killed a bear while fightin' off hundreds of Kiowas? And did you kill a two-timin' trader from five hundred yards with only one shot right between his eyes?"

Molly moved her horse nearer. When Matt chanced a glance at her, she was smiling.

"Tall tales, Howie. Don't believe everything you hear," he said.

"Gosh, I sure would love to hear about some of your adventures," the boy gushed.

"Maybe some other time," Matt replied, feeling uncomfortable with such adoration. There was nothing in his life he would label an adventure. Too much death and violence had been attached to it.

"Could I bring some buddies?" Howie asked, latching onto the prospect.

Matt thought Logan would love that--more potential husbands for Molly. But Howie seemed more interested in him at the moment, not a pretty young woman. The boy needed to get his priorities straight, having all but forgotten Molly. Logan would probably howl at that too, but Matt felt oddly reassured by it.

"I'll think about it," Matt said. "Now get going."

"Gotcha." He excitedly shook Matt's hand again. "I'll see ya, Mr. Ryan." He walked his horse out of the corral to where he'd left his saddle. Belatedly, he remembered Molly. "Oh yeah, bye Miss Molly. Thanks for the ridin' lesson." He waved a few times before cinching his saddle atop his horse, hoisting himself up then heading south.

"Logan asked me to teach him," Molly said, frowning. "Do most ranches normally have such poor riders?"

Matt grimaced. "No, not usually." He walked along the fence to the gate, watching as Molly gracefully slid from Pecos' back. Finally the skirt was where it ought to be. He held the gate while Molly walked through.

"Do you always ride bareback in dresses?" he asked.

"No, of course not. It was more awkward than I thought it would be," she said, shaking her head.

"I was in search of lunch before I was sidetracked. Wanna join me?"

"Sidetracked by what?" she asked, falling in step beside him.

"You." He looked directly at her.

A lovely blush illuminated her face, which pleased him inordinately. He grinned as he glanced around the ranch his father had built from nothing over the years.

Matt was fifteen when his folks had left Virginia and came to Texas, looking for a fresh start after the Civil War. He still remembered living out of a little shack, he and Logan helping their pa chase down and rope the wild longhorns roaming everywhere in abundance. For the first time it dawned on Matt what an incredible gamble the old man had taken.

All for the love of a woman. His father's devotion to Susanna Ryan was unsurpassed in these parts. He was a tough son-of-a-bitch when he wanted to be, but he made no bones about why he worked as hard as he did. "It's all for you, darlin,'" Matt had heard his pa say on more than one occasion. His ma's response was always a bashful smile, a reaction only his old man could ever elicit.

"There's an old shack on the property not far from here," Matt heard himself say as he guided Molly around to the back of the house. "It's where we lived when we first came here from Virginia. Maybe we could ride out some afternoon and have a look."

"I seem to remember living out of our wagon for a time," she replied. "Our families had so little when we came out here."

"I often wished Robert Hart had never brought any of you out here at all," he said quietly.

Molly smiled. "I knew this was home the moment my feet hit the dirt."

Matt stared into her blue eyes.

Home.

"Do you still feel that way?" he asked, intensely curious. After all she had been through, it was a wonder she didn't hate everyone and everything associated with her ordeal for the last ten years.

She hesitated. "I'm not sure," she replied slowly. "Home isn't a concept I'm familiar with anymore."

Turning, she climbed the few steps to the back porch. Matt followed her through the door that led to the kitchen. Both simultaneously removed their hats. The elderly Mexican cook glanced over her shoulder when she heard the door open.

"Rosita," Matt said, smiling. "Sorry to bother you but I'm looking for somethin' to eat."

Pursing her lips, Rosita wiped her flour-dusted hands on her apron. "Senor Matt, I just cleaned up lunch."

Matt looked down at her. Rosita was very short, but far from meek or helpless. She and her husband had been at the SR for years. Juan was one of the best horse wranglers they employed. Their children had since scattered to the wind, much the way Matt and Logan had; his ma had pointed that out one day not long ago. He knew his mother would like nothing better than to see him settled somewhere, preferably close. "To see my grandchildren," she had said.

But Matt just didn't see himself with children. What he had seen of youngsters caught in the crossfire of Indian wars, and the brutality in general of this land, had convinced him that children were better left to the worries of others.

"And is this the senorita Juan was speaking of?" Rosita shifted her attention to Molly. "He say you are muy bien with the horses. You ride like an Indian, he say. My Juan, he not impressed by many people, but you...all through lunch he talk about you."

"Thank you," Molly answered.

"So, you both sit down," Rosita said, ushering them to a long table flanked on each side by a wooden bench. "I make you something to eat." She walked back to the stove and began spooning something into bowls. "What is your name?"

Matt sat next to Molly on one side of the table. They would both be able to speak to Rosita this way, he told himself. He ignored the fact that being near Molly was just plain nice.

"Well, it's Matt," he answered innocently. "I thought you knew that."

Rosita fixed him with a glare. "Oh, you Ryan boys. You never get a wife with such a smart mouth. I tell my Juan he must teach you boys some charm. Si, si," she said loudly, raising her arms for emphasis, "charm. Not a senorita who could resist you then since the good Lord already blessed you with a handsome face. It's almost wicked, I say." She set the steaming aromatic bowls before them.

"Thank you," Molly said. With a smile, she added, "My name is Molly."

"Where you come from?" Rosita asked earnestly.

Molly cleared her throat, glancing at Matt. "Mexico?" she answered.

"Molly is an old friend. She's been away for many years," Matt intervened.

"Where in Mexico?" Rosita asked Molly, ignoring him.

"Well," she said, "I was living mostly in the mountains."

Rosita planted a fist on each hip. A spoon extended from one hand and dripped sauce onto the floor. Molly let out a sigh. "Before that," she added, "I lived for many years with the Comanche."

The Mexican cook's eyes widened.

Matt started to eat the bean, corn and tomato stew flavored with chili peppers. He was too hungry to wait while the women spoke.

Rosita put a plate of flour tortillas before him and a pitcher of water.

He poured a glass for Molly then himself.

"Well, that explains how you came to ride so well," Rosita finally said. "The Comanche, they are expert horseman. They teach their women to ride?"

Molly nodded while spooning the stew into her mouth. She suddenly coughed.

"It's spicy, si," Rosita said. "Drink some water."

Molly took a big gulp, then reached for a tortilla.

"You'll get used to Rosita's cooking," Matt said to Molly, smiling at her watery eyes. "You won't get sick eating this stuff."

"I think I'm sick now," Molly wheezed.

Matt laughed. "What do the Comanche eat?"

"Buffalo, berries, nuts, more buffalo." Molly gulped more water. "It's really very good, Rosita. Thank you." But her voice was still strained.

The petite woman waved her off with a smile. "You eat it all. You look too thin. Those Indians starve you?"

"Not on purpose," Molly replied. "But some winters were long."

Matt finished his portion then moved to stand for a second helping when Molly's hand on his arm stopped him. She set her bowl on the table before him. Her touch beckoned him back into his seat.

"You should eat more," he said quietly to her. "Rosita's right, you're too thin."

"Isn't that better than too fat?" she asked with an amused glint in her eyes.

When he continued to glare at her, she reached for another tortilla and began eating it. He ate her stew while Rosita busied herself around the large kitchen.

"You have no marks from the Comanche," Rosita said. "They no mark you up?"

Molly shook her head. "No. I was treated well, for the most part."

"How old when they take you?"

"I was nine."

"You lucky to come back."

"Yes," Molly agreed. "I know."

"I know men attacked. The Indians, they scalp them. Some don't die." Rosita shook her head. "They wear a hat to hide it."

"Anyone in particular you know?" Matt asked curiously.

"Juan meet a man at the Bautista ranch a few months back. He was ugly as a mangy dog. Juan, he certain the man was scalped many years ago."

"Do you remember his name?" Matt questioned.

Rosita paused, thinking. "Whitaker he say. Si, that was his name."

Matt turned the information over in his head. A connection to Walker seemed unlikely, but it was a place to start. He would talk to Dawson first. The foreman knew most of the ranches in the area, and would probably know who this Whitaker was, whom he might have worked for in the past.

"What are you thinking?" Molly interrupted his thoughts.

"Nothing you need to worry over," he answered. He wanted to involve Molly as little as possible in the search for the man or men who killed her parents.

Standing, he grabbed his hat and made to leave. "Thanks, Rosita."

Molly came up quickly behind him, following him outside and down the steps. "Wait," she said. "Do you think this man Whitaker could have been involved in the attack ten years ago?"

Matt placed his hat on his head then stopped to look at the young woman running after him. "Molly, do me a favor."

"What?"

"Trust me. I'll take care of this. I don't want you involved."

"Why not?" she asked, her irritation evident.

"Because you should be looking to the future, not looking for the kind of vermin that would commit such cold-blooded crimes. You should think about finding a husband and making a house full of babies instead."

"Is that why you think I came back?" she asked. "To find a husband and live happily ever after?" Pushing her hat onto her head she rested her hands on slender hips hugged by a dress the same color as the sky, a dress his mother had undoubtedly given her.

She was a sturdy woman, he told himself. She should have no trouble having a whole bushel of babes. The thought irritated him. Her sturdiness couldn't eclipse the tempting curves so readily apparent. It pricked his mood, imagining some other man enjoying those curves.

"If you decide to go see this Whitaker man, will you promise to take me with you?" Her voice was firm.

"I'm not going to make a promise like that."

"You need me," she argued. "I was the only witness to all of this. I might remember something that could be useful. I came back hoping to see my family again, and all I got were grave markers. I have nothing, Matt. Nothing save my horse, a few meager supplies and what little gold I have left from Elijah. Maybe that makes you think I'd be looking for a man to take care of me, but that couldn't be further from my mind. What I want right now is simply the truth. And then, maybe, I can begin to consider the future."

Matt saw the determination in her eyes, but he also caught a clear glimpse of the shadows. The scars of the past ten years flashed to the surface; they had lain hidden deeper than even he had suspected.

He wanted to wipe the fear from her haunted eyes. He wanted her safe. He wanted...things he shouldn't.

"I'll think about it." He could give her that much, at least.

"Hey, Matt." The yell came from near the corral. Matt looked over his shoulder at Dawson. "Blackmore's ridin' in."

"Thanks." His gaze came back to Molly.

Her face, shaded by her hat, was still etched with concern.

Such a little sprite she'd once been, stirring up emotions within him he never expected--affection, fondness, protectiveness. Such a resolute woman she'd become, stirring...damn, he really didn't want to dwell on that. Nothing good would come of it.

"Why don't you come and meet Nathan?" he said, walking toward the man approaching on a dark horse. Perhaps his friend would be interested in Molly. On the heels of that thought came an irrational impulse to usher her back into the house, to keep her from the eyes of any of the men on the ranch, including Nathan. But he forced himself to resist it.

He couldn't have it both ways. But his mind was beginning to lean to the possibility that he knew wasn't a possibility at all. A possibility he wasn't sure he could live with if he ever let it occur.

As he stood beside her and waited for the man who had saved his life, the hard reality of his truth slapped him in the face.

He wanted Molly for himself.