A Touch of Frost

by Jo Goodman

  “And you think he’ll be fair and honest?”

  “I have no reason to think otherwise. Name’s Tyler. Jacob C. Tyler, Junior. Before you go running off with this fella, you see about Sylvia giving you a day for yourself. Any Sunday would be good. I’d be pleased to escort you.”

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Phoebe used her lower legs to gently squeeze Mrs. McCauley and push the mare forward from a walk to a trot. During the transition, when Mrs. McCauley was most likely to balk, she pressed her heels lightly into the animal’s sides. Phoebe adjusted the swing of her hips until she had the horse’s rhythm and then sat heavy in the saddle to keep from bouncing out of it. She had been practicing almost every day for two weeks, sometimes circling the corral without her feet in the stirrups to help her strengthen her seat. Early on, it was exhausting. She would bounce high out of the saddle because she was gripping too hard with her thighs, and without her weight on Mrs. McCauley’s back, the mare would stop because she didn’t know what to do.

  There wasn’t a ranch hand around who didn’t have some piece of advice for her. None of them were shy about hollering it out. Sometimes the suggestions were contradictory. She tried everything at least once and used what worked for her. If Thaddeus was nearby and heard them shouting instructions at her, he growled at them to put their two cents away and get back to work.

  “She’s coming along,” said Ben to Remington.

  The pair stepped out of the barn together and into the bright sunshine. Ben lifted his hat, beat it once against his thigh, and returned it to his head. In that brief hatless moment, sunlight glanced off his hair, turning it flame orange, and highlighting every one of the freckles sprayed across his nose and cheeks.

  “Mm-hmm.” Remington’s eyes followed Phoebe as she circled the inside of the corral.

  Ben set his shoulder against the barn and folded his arms across his chest. “She’s not going to be satisfied staying inside the rails much longer.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  Ben shrugged. “I don’t know. I guess because she asked me yesterday if the trail to Boxer’s Ridge would be easy for her to follow.”

  “Christ,” Remington said under his breath. He looked over at Ben. “What did you tell her?”

  “What you’d expect. Told her about the snakes and the loose rocks and the steep climb and the switchback that makes it seem like you and your horse are going to fall off the edge of the earth.”

  “She believed you?”

  “Why wouldn’t she?”

  “Because she’s not . . . never mind. I’ll take care of it.” He shook his head. “Boxer’s Ridge. Wonder how she heard of it.”

  “I’m recollecting hearing Fiona’s name in our conversation.”

  “Hmm.”

  “Speaking of . . .” Ben jerked his chin toward the house. “Where is Mrs. Frost today? I saw the buggy’s gone. She take it out?”

  “Thaddeus drove her into town. He’s rounding up help for branding the calves so we can get them out to pasture. She’s probably shopping.”

  “Ralph and I rode out early to count head around Baker’s Knob. Guess that’s how I didn’t see them leave.”

  “What’s the count?”

  “Four hundred, give or take. We chased off some cattle from the Double H. We can expect Hank Henry’s men to direct some of our cows back this way. Always a tangle after a long winter.”

  Remington nodded. He continued to watch Phoebe. Her concentration was all for what she was doing. He didn’t think she was aware of his interest. Or Ben’s.

  Ben said, “My mother mentioned she sent you to town a couple of days ago with a list as long as her arm.”

  “I was already intending to go, so I got the list. And it was every bit that long.”

  “Huh. She usually sends me.”

  Remington looked crossways at Ben. “You have a particular interest in everyone’s comings and goings, or are you just making conversation?”

  “Just making conversation, I expect. Why?”

  “Jeez, Ben, you’re not exactly a stranger to me. I’ve known you all your life, or near to. It occurs to me that you have a niggling question you can’t figure how to ask. If that’s the case, just ask it.”

  “All right.” He lifted his chin to indicate Phoebe. “I was wondering if you maybe spoke to Brewer about her. About the investigation, really. Haven’t heard anything in a while, not that it’s my business, not directly, but I was there that night, waiting, same as everyone else, and I set out to find her with your father and the sheriff.”

  “I remember.”

  “Yeah, well, I’ve got an interest.”

  Remington arched one dark eyebrow. “You do?”

  “Sure.” He saw Remington’s gaze return to Phoebe. “Oh, no. You got it wrong. I like her just fine, like her, you understand, but my interest is in getting justice for her.”

  “Has she talked to you about that?”

  “No. And I don’t bring it up. Figure it’s a tender spot, and I’m not one for poking at it the way you do.”

  “Me?”

  “You’re the one that took her back to Thunder Point. If that’s not poking at what’s tender, then I don’t know what is.”

  “What makes you think we went there?”

  “If you’re saying you didn’t, I’m going to have to call you a liar. My mother overheard Thaddeus and Fiona arguing about it. Maybe she shouldn’t have told me, but she did, probably because she knew I was concerned. I haven’t repeated it. I can’t say whether Phoebe might have said something to anyone, but if she has, it never reached my ears that way.”

  Remington said nothing for a time, rolling the potential responses over in his mind. “I’ve been talking to Sheriff Brewer. I’ve had concerns, same as you. I want justice for her, same as you.”

  Ben nodded. “Good to know we’re of like minds and on the same side. Her side.” He straightened and dug his thumbs into the pockets of his jeans. “So what have you heard? Brewer must know something by now. Lord, it’s been what, better than eight weeks?”

  “About that.”

  “So?”

  “You know Northeast Rail sent one of their detectives to investigate. Michael Smith.”

  “Yes. Thaddeus told me that. It was expected.”

  “Brewer informed me the other day that Smith left the Butterworth a week or so ago. Cleared out. He—Smith—could no longer justify his stay to the company. Nothing he learned led anywhere.”

  “Nothing?”

  Remington shook his head. “Lots of information from the passengers but nothing to give him a trail to follow. In the meantime, there have been no other robberies.”

  “So that’s it. He’s gone and Brewer’s done.”

  “It’d seem that way.”

  Frowning, Ben knuckled the bridge of his nose. “What else? There’s something else. I know you, too, and I can tell when you’ve got more to say and are still thinking about whether you want to say it.”

  Remington slanted a wry grin Ben’s way. “Seems that Blue might have stumbled onto something significant.”

  “Blue? Our Blue Armstrong?”

  “You know another Blue?”

  “I thought maybe one moved to town. Jumpin’ Jesus on a griddle. Blue Armstrong. I’ll be damned.”

  “Brewer says that his deputy’s biggest advantage is that people underestimate him.”

  “That’s fair. What’s the significant something he stumbled on?”

  “A piece of jewelry taken from one of passengers during the robbery. Blue was able to match it against the description he was given from the owner, but to be certain, they want to have it authenticated. They’re working out the details of that now. It’s taking longer to make the arrangements than Blue thought it would.”

  “What’s the piece?”

>   Remington put a hand to his throat as if he were choking himself. “A seed pearl collar. I guess it shows off a woman’s neck to a particular advantage.”

  “Huh. Don’t see how. Not if the thing covers up her neck.”

  Remington lowered his hand. “I asked Phoebe about it. She says it favors the length of a woman’s neck. Draws a man’s eye to it.”

  “You told her about the necklace?”

  “Uh-huh. I wondered if she remembered anyone wearing it.”

  “Did she?”

  “No. She said whoever owned it wouldn’t have been wearing it on the train. It’s for fancy dress. Evening wear, she called it. She thought it was probably kept in a case.”

  “But you said you had the owner’s description. You know who it belongs to.”

  “The sheriff wanted to see if Phoebe could verify ownership. He wants to make sure he gets it back to the right hands.”

  “Makes sense. Must be worth something big, a necklace like that.”

  “Collar,” Remington said. “I guess that’s the proper term for it. Phoebe called it a dog collar.”

  “That’s probably what’s referred to as a woman’s prerogative. I wouldn’t dare call it that.” He dropped his shoulder against the barn again and crossed his legs at the ankle. “Unless the woman’s a bitch. Then I might reconsider.”

  Remington said nothing; he didn’t smile, didn’t raise an eyebrow. For all of Ben’s casual way of dropping the comment, Remington thought about it long after Ben was gone.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Branding was not for the faint of heart, Phoebe decided, so when Fiona arrived at the site where the calves were penned so they could be dropped, heeled, sometimes castrated, and finally branded, it was not merely a surprise; it was shocking. That Fiona was wearing jeans tucked into a pair of embossed leather boots, a pale yellow cotton shirt, a tan leather vest, and a flat-crowned black hat, caused mouths to gape as she alighted from the buckboard. The only person who did not gape was Thaddeus, and Phoebe suspected that was because he had had a private showing of this very outfit.

  “Close your mouth, Les,” Thaddeus called out above the bawling of the cattle. “Unless you like the taste of cow shit.”

  Les Brownlee spit. “Developing a taste, sure enough.” But he closed his mouth.

  Thaddeus passed the hot branding iron he was holding to Ralph Neighbors and hopped the pen to get to Fiona. He removed his gloves and took her hand. “You certain about this?”

  “I must be. I’m here.”

  He turned her hands over to examine her palms. “Where are your gloves?”

  “I put them on the kitchen table while I was packing the baskets, and then I forgot them.”

  Thaddeus looked past her shoulder to where five hampers rested in the bed of the buckboard. “You packed them?”

  “It’s insulting that you’re asking,” she said, although there was no scold in her tone. “I’ve spent a lifetime packing trunks.”

  Phoebe was close enough now to hear Fiona. She tried to recall the last time Fiona had packed her own trunks. She couldn’t. Still, she did not offer a contradiction. If she took the long view, then she counted it as a very good thing that Fiona wanted to impress Thaddeus.

  “Fiona! You look striking.” Phoebe meant it. Her smile split the lower half of her face. “Come. I’ll help you with the baskets. The men put together a table for the spread.” She pointed to the rough planks supported by sawhorses thirty yards from the pen. “We’ll set things out like a grand buffet and they can eat as they’re able.”

  Fiona looked over the setting doubtfully. “There is no place for them to sit.”

  Thaddeus chuckled. “Do you think any of these men are going to object to the ground? They’ve been wrestling calves, Fiona. They’ll be grateful just because they don’t have to wrestle their supper.”

  Phoebe waved him away and took Fiona by the elbow to lead her to the rear of the wagon. “Where’s Ellie?” she asked. “You didn’t murder her, did you?”

  Fiona pursed her lips disapprovingly. “You should not say things like that.” Then she qualified her disapproval. “Where people might hear.”

  “I can barely hear myself,” Phoebe said, gesturing toward the pen where men were shouting, calves were bawling, and the cows, separated from their unweaned babies, were crying as if it were all happening to them. “But I take your point.”

  “She was still in the kitchen when I left,” said Fiona. “She’s bringing jugs of beer and fresh water.”

  “The men will appreciate that.” She slid one of the baskets toward her and thrust it at Fiona. She lifted another and hugged it to her. “Heavy.”

  Fiona nodded and stepped aside to let Phoebe lead the way. “What is that stench?” she asked, wrinkling her nose.

  “Burnt hair and flesh. You understand what branding is, don’t you?”

  “Thaddeus told me. He failed to mention the stink.”

  Phoebe set down her basket. “I have a couple of scented handkerchiefs. I haven’t pulled one out yet. I didn’t want the men to snicker. Would you like one?”

  “And have them snicker at me? I don’t think so. How did you know to bring a scented handkerchief?”

  “Remington suggested it.”

  “Mm. Thoughtful, but it appears he neglected to account for your pride.”

  Phoebe grinned. “Let’s finish this and go and watch. You’ve never seen anything like it.”

  Fiona was sure that was true.

  In addition to the men who worked for Twin Star, there were a dozen volunteers from neighboring ranches and a few young men from town who wanted to try their hand at roping and wrestling. The experienced hands enjoyed ribbing the greenhorns, but it was all good-natured jibing since every one of them had started out barely knowing a head from a hoof.

  No one was immune to the stench, but some bore it better than others. Young Johnny Sutton excused himself twice from the gathering to go off alone to puke. The stink got him once, but watching a calf lose its balls to a Bowie knife took him out the second time. A couple of men burned themselves wielding the hot iron and a couple more got kicked by understandably disgruntled two-hundred-pound calves, but no one complained. The shared sentiment was grin and bear it and don’t get careless again.

  Pairs of men grabbed a calf, one by the head, the other by a rear leg or tail, and if they knew what they were doing, they could drop the calf in seconds. Once the animal was pinned, the red-hot Twin Star branding iron was applied for three seconds to the calf’s left shoulder. If the calf was male, Thaddeus performed the castration. Johnny Sutton, once his stomach settled, was charged with collecting the testicles.

  The greenhorns chased the calves, whooping and hollering, tiring themselves out before they mostly scared one into submission. The seasoned ranch hands knew how to conserve their energy, but when they broke for supper, Phoebe watched them stretch, bend, shake out their joints, and check themselves somewhat surreptitiously for injuries.

  Ellie’s arrival was greeted enthusiastically because she was well liked but mostly because she brought the beer. Phoebe expected her to claim the territory around the long tables as her own, but she allowed Fiona to help without any noticeable balking.

  Women and girls and children arrived from ranches and town soon after, bringing more food, more beer, and more in the way of that good-natured ribbing. Phoebe had not understood until then what a social event this was, one that would be repeated in the days ahead as the branding chores moved from one ranch to another until all the calves were sent to graze in open pastures. It was like an after-opening-night theater party without the trepidation of critical reviews.

  Phoebe shared this perspective with Remington when he joined her at the buckboard. She made room for him to sit with her on the bed of the wagon and eyed his heaping plate of food with appreciation for the hard w
ork he’d been doing.

  “I saw one of the calves kick you,” she said. “I don’t know how you’re walking without a limp.”

  “And draw more attention to my carelessness? No. Anyway, it’s not so bad. I’ve been kicked worse.” He used a thumb to point over his shoulder in the direction of the table. “Did you know Fiona was going to show up dressed like that?”

  Phoebe turned her head and saw Fiona was passing one of the town boys a plate of food. He thanked her, she beamed, and Phoebe thought the boy actually staggered backward. Another conquest. Phoebe was helpless to do anything but smile and shake her head. “I had no idea,” she told Remington. “But then she’s always known how to make an entrance.” She stole a cold medallion of roast beef from Remington’s plate before he could slap her hand away. “That’s not fair to her,” she said, reconsidering. “I think your father has already seen her in those clothes, so if there was a grand entrance, it was also a private one.”

  “The same occurred to me.”

  “Something’s different between them. Have you noticed, or is it wishful thinking?”

  “I’ve noticed, and it’s not because I’ve had any wishful thinking about it.”

  “What does that mean? Don’t you want them to get along?”

  Remington forked a small boiled potato. “I shouldn’t have said that.” He opened his mouth and closed it around the potato.

  Phoebe watched him. “You did say it, and you can’t shovel food in your mouth forever to keep from explaining yourself.”

  Remington chewed, swallowed. “All right. The truth is I don’t trust her, Phoebe. I can’t see far enough into the future to a time when that will be different.”

  Phoebe pressed her lips together, nodded. It was not an unexpected response, but she had needed to hear it from him. “I asked her, you know, what she did to make you dislike her so much.”

  “Did you? I didn’t know. What did she say?” He stopped her from answering by raising his fork hand and waggling the utensil. “No. Let me guess. I figure she threw it back at you, probably with some self-righteous irritation to deflect your question. She’d wonder how you could ask her. She would be hurt.”