than any woman had a right to be. It wasnât fair that a mere girl had out-manuevered a smart hombre like himself and caused him all this trouble.
Maverick sighed. âMaybe we can get the newspapers before Cayenne and Cimarron see them.â
âMaybe the whole thingâll blow over,â Ace said.
âHmmph! Not likely,â Trace snapped. âAnd you, Diego de Durango the Fourth, you can forget about going to any more parties or doing anything besides maybe cleaning out the stables for a while.â
Lynnie grinned at him, and he fought an urge to open the carriage door and push her out into the street in front of a brewery wagon passing by. If he said anything, he was only going to get into more trouble. He couldnât win against Lynnie, Ace realized with a resigned sigh. Even when they were kids, sheâd outsmarted him, and she could get away with it because she was a girl. Here heâd thought he was doing a favor, escorting the poor little spinster to the ball, and sheâd used him as part of her plan. No wonder the cunning, headstrong old maid couldnât get a husband; no man liked a woman who was smarter than he was. Well, it would be a cold day in hell before Ace got himself into another fix with Lynnie McBride.
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That morning, each family returned to its own ranch. Ace was assigned to clean out the horse stalls in the barn, while his indignant father paced up and down before the library fire with the little Chihuahua trailing after him. âCimarron, your son is a mess.â
Cimarron raised her head from her sewing and surveyed her angry husband calmly. âHeâs just a young stallion, and someday heâll tame down.â
âHe may not live that long,â Trace grumbled, stopping to light a cigarillo. âI just donât know what itâs going to take to turn that young dandy into a man. Iâm beginning to worry that heâll never be up to the challenge of running this ranch. His sister, on the other hand . . .â
âNow, Raven will do a good job with her share; we know that,â Cimarron soothed as she put down her sewing and walked over to put her arms around him. âIâll bet when Ace finally has to take on some responsibility, heâll come through.â
âHa!â Trace paused. âHeâs never known what it was like to fight Indians, run off rustlers.â
âHe can shoot and ride well.â Cimarron defended her errant son. âMaybe heâs a little wild and devil-may-careââ
âA little?â Trace looked at her. âWhen I was that age, Maverick and I were leading cattle drives up the Chisholm Trail.â
Cimarron sighed and walked over to look out the French doors at the big fountain in the courtyard. âThings are changing, dearâgetting civilized. With railroads coming in and stockyards being built here in Texas, those cattle drives are fading fast.â
Trace went over to the sideboard and poured himself a tequila. âNow, there was something that would turn a boy into a man. Driving cattle hundreds of miles up to Kansas across Indian Territory. Why, manyâs the time Maverick and I slept on the ground and stayed in the saddle most of the night, trying to keep spooked cattle from stampeding.â
Cimarron rolled her eyes. She had heard these same stories many, many times. âWith Kansas complaining about Texas fever infecting their herds, and barbed wire strung everywhere, Iâm afraid those days are almost gone forever.â
Trace nodded agreement and sipped his drink. âLess than twenty years. When the Chisholm Trail opened right after the War ended, I thought the drives would go on forever. I reckon youâre right. Soon thereâll be no reason to drive cattle hundreds of miles to load them on freight cars.â
âI remember what a handsome young wrangler you were.â Cimarron smiled. âMaybe some of the cattlemen