Cowboy of Mine Read Free

gray from the frost. It hadn’t snowed last night or the day before, Christmas. There’d been many a complaint about that, he’d overheard. Although most of the Montanans dreaded the snow, it was sought for one day of the year, when it would bring magical white joy to all who celebrated the day.
    It had remained cold and brown though. As they said in the Highlands, Is blianach Nollaid gun sneachd - Christmas without snow is poor fare. And today was no fairer, but even more dreary with the grayness the morning frost brought to the scenery. As much as it hadn’t snowed, he sure felt it in the air, the way he could sense impending doom—it vibrated in his bones, mostly his ribs, making him feel as though his heart rattled.
    Something about this trip made his heart rattle more than usual. Didn’t know what that was about and wanted to spend some time thinking upon it. But he needed the money the town offered more.
    Like most mining settlements in western territories, Plateau looked as transitory as all the others. Dotting the valley village were tents with chimneys, white smoke puffing away like old men gossiping on a porch. A short wide street lay bare the gray-brown frozen earth and was home to five buildings. A tiny jailhouse, freshly bricked into place with new whitewash already peeling from being applied when it was too damned cold. A general store next to a stagecoach stop, complete with hotel and restaurant, and, Jake guessed, the seeming requisite tavern. And a church. Always at the end of the street. This one was decorated with homemade paper ribbons of red and green, torn down and swaying limply from a frigid breeze.
    He didn’t know what it was about churches being at the end of the road. Wondered if the builders of the steepled structure engineered it to be that way. As if asking the folks without any faith to come to the end of the line for answers.
    Jake knew the answers though.
    There weren’t any.
    Stopping at the tavern, his legs protested any kind of movement. Sure, he’d taken breaks during the ride, stretched, but he was exhausted, and his body nearly crumbled when his booted foot met the cold ground. He held onto Moses, his bay gelding, for support. The old horse cocked one eye his direction, summoning an I-told-you-not-to-push-it look. Jake almost chuckled at the horse. Almost.
    Tilting his head side to side, then bending his knees, he got his bearings. It was like sea legs, it was. After a long ride, one had to take the time to resettle to the surface, to the soil, to become grounded. He’d hated sailing but had often wondered if the steamboats of this age might be more comfortable. Then again, the reason he’d hated sailing was because he’d been a prisoner of war. It had been 1651. He’d never ventured far from his Highland MacKay country, but he and his brothers had been pressed into service for Laird Reay. Cromwell and the New Order Army were unstoppable, but if he and his brothers deserted the royalist army, they’d’ve had a sword through their bellies. Fight or die. Die or fight. Too fast, he’d found himself in England, Worcester, battling for his life. After his brother, Douglas, lay mangled, bloody, and dead, he’d surrendered to the English, hoping for reprieve from the fighting, from further death. Striped from his lands, his brother’s demise laying heavily on his shoulders as did the cold manacles around his wrists and ankles, and the sailors above deck ridiculed his accent as often as they’d flung the dead overboard. Aye, he hadn’t been fond of sailing.
    Jake shook his head, reminding himself of the time, of his tongue. Not saying a word was usually best for passing as an American. However, he knew he’d have to talk today. After all, this was an interview to become the new sheriff of Plateau. So he’d practiced on the ride, hence the reason for riding at night when no one could hear him. He’d talked all night, perfecting his American accent. He sounded pretty good to