"Don't you shout at Sister Ash that way," Liam shrilled. "Go away!"
"I wish the hell I could," Garret said, digging through a barrel then tossing it the way of the chair. "We're going to get sick of each other by the time this torture is over."
He swung down from the wagon box, every muscle taut with dangerous power.
Clutching at her dressing gown, Ash moved to follow him, her temper blazing. "I don't know who you think you are—"
"I think I'm a damn fool."
He stalked to where the horses were tethered, yanking their lead ropes free. With a cry Renny ran, flinging his arms around Cooley's glossy neck, the other horses skittering back as if they, too, sensed the menace in MacQuade.
It was then Ash saw the oxen—huge, ugly beasts with wicked-looking horns, tied to a hitch rail.
Garret motioned to the man standing beside them.
Realizing MacQuade's intent, Ashleen dodged in front of him, barring his path, hands on hips. "Keep your hands off my horses, Mr. MacQuade, or I'll call the sheriff."
"If these are your horses, lady, you got cheated but good. You're lucky they made it this far."
"They're fine horses. Sound."
"Sound enough to pull a buggy to Sunday meeting, or to take a leisurely ride around town. But there is no way these horses would be strong enough to drag that hulk of a wagon of yours halfway across the country."
"S-Sister Ash." Renny's voice was quavering, pleading, his eyes desperate upon her as he clung to his beloved horse. "Don't—you can't let him... him take..."
"The horses go, or I won't guide this wagon as far as the next street. It's your choice." Garret crossed muscled arms over his chest and glowered from beneath lowered brows.
"Guide our wagon? Did you say you would take us to Texas?"
"Yes, God help me. Unless, of course, you want to look around and find another fine, upstanding pillar of the community like Mr. Spader to take you."
Torn between astonished relief that MacQuade would guide them and fury at the insufferable man's arrogance, Ashleen loathed him, hating the helplessness weighing her down. Regarding his decree about the horses, she really had no choice, and Garret MacQuade knew it.
She'd never forgive him for the touch of smugness about that wide, sensual mouth. "I should've drowned you in the horse trough."
"Too late now. Well, what's it gonna be, Sister? It's your hand to play."
Ashleen felt tears of frustration burn her eyelids, but she held her jaw rigid. She wanted to tell him to go dive in the stream. Wanted to tell him to leap from the nearest precipice. But she glanced over to see three small, frightened faces clustered at the back of the wagon. She turned to see Renny clutching at Cooley with raw anguish, his eyes on her, filled with blind faith.
It was a choice that was no choice at all.
She hated MacQuade for it.
"Have it your way, then," Ashleen bit out. "But you'll not take Cooley."
"Cooley?"
"The bay. He belongs with Renny."
"You got enough feed and enough stamina to take care of an extra piece of livestock?"
Ashleen stepped close, her face but a few inches from MacQuade's own, her voice so low no one else could hear it. But in spite of its whispered tone it was shored up with words, whiplash tough.
"I know you don't much care, Mr. MacQuade, but that boy over there has lost more than enough already. He lost his parents, his home, his country. He's not going to lose that horse."
Something unreadable flashed into those wolf-gray eyes, but his voice was unyielding as stone. "Fine. Maybe if you get hungry enough on the trail, you can eat it."
Ash knew the oaf was trying to rattle her. He succeeded. Her stomach lurched at the picture his words conjured. She was tired, so blasted weary of traveling, of fighting for every scrap of food for herself and the children. The responsibility seemed to grind her down like a giant boulder, and each mistake she had made—exposed by arrogant men like Garret MacQuade—chipped away at her faith in herself. Her faith that she had done the right thing sweeping the little ones away from Ireland, away from the horrors of the workhouse, into what seemed a hostile, unforgiving land.
