“Hi,” Bat said, suddenly shy.
“Well, good evening.” Rilla paused a couple of yards from him.
“Your pa was out looking for you. I thought you might be down here.”
“Oh, thank you. I’ll go right in.”
He could barely make out the smile she gave him, but it was enough to send a shock of anticipation through him. What was that about, anyway? He’d better not start having thoughts about the boss’s daughter—especially a boss as hard-nosed as Mr. Lane.
Woolly hovered for a moment between him and Rilla, panting and turning his head back and forth. The lady won out, and the little spaniel trotted off in her wake.
Bat watched until they both rounded a bend in the path and then sauntered listlessly toward the creek. Rilla Lane was an eyeful, but more than that, she was smart. Kind, too. She took notice of people like Henry. She was the type of woman Bat dreamed of meeting—possibly sharing his life with. But that wasn’t likely.
Near the old willow tree that stretched its limbs toward the creek, he spotted something white on the ground and stooped to pick it up. A crumpled piece of paper. Rilla must have dropped it. Bat smoothed it out. The light was too dim now for him to read it.
He folded it and put it in his pocket and walked back to the bunkhouse. Zeke was lighting a lantern in the big room the nine hired men shared—eight, now that Hen was gone. The foreman had his own little house, beyond the corrals.
Most of the men were washing up or lolling on their bunks, waiting for chow time. Rolly was stirring a kettle on the small box stove, and Cyrus, a weather-beaten cowpuncher whose shaggy blond hair was going gray, sat in a chair with his guitar, his boots propped up on a rough table.
“Stew’ll be hot in just a minute, boys,” Rolly said. He cooked for the men—or mostly heated up what Miss Rilla sent over from the house. Lately their chow had seen a big improvement over what they’d eaten during the bleak months when Mrs. Lane was so sick and Rilla hadn’t come home. Rolly did all right, but it was mostly beans and beef then. He wasn’t much of a bread maker.
“You got biscuits tonight?” Cyrus strummed a plaintive chord on his guitar.
“Miss Rilla sent over some corn bread.”
“That’s just as good,” Bat said.
“Nah, her biscuits are the best,” Zeke said. “They beat her ma’s all hollow.”
Bat offered to help clean up after supper, mostly hoping to get a chance to look at the paper in his pocket without the others noticing. Sure enough, several of the men started a card game. After he’d wiped down the table, dried the dishes Oscar had washed, and put them away in the cupboard, Bat sneaked the paper out and turned away from the poker players while he stealthily unfolded it.
Something feral in me cries out to go beyond the hills,
To see the next horizon, to spar with the unknown.
Now, that was beautiful. It didn’t rhyme, but she must be planning to add more. Bat wondered why she had crumpled it up. Did she think it wasn’t any good? He read the two lines over, slowly. He got that exact feeling sometimes, the longing to see something new. It made his lungs ache.
But did Rilla feel that way? Did this mean she wanted to leave? Did she hate the ranch? The thought of her going away again pained him, and it wasn’t just because they would lose her featherlight biscuits.
There was more on the other side of the paper, but he didn’t have a chance to read it.
“Hey, Bat, you want us to deal you in?” Zeke called.
Quickly he folded the paper and put it back in his shirt pocket. “Whatcha playin’ for?”
“Matchsticks.”
“Sure. Deal me in.”
Chapter 2
Bat put his back into it as the men unloaded two wagonloads of feed. He climbed into the back of the buckboard to get another sack. There were at least thirty of the fifty-pound sacks left when Mr. Lane came tearing into the barnyard on his bay gelding.
“Who rode the east fence line yesterday?”
“I did, sir.” Cyrus straightened, a full sack over his shoulder.
“Didn’t you see a gap in the fence?”
“No, sir.”
“Well, a dozen of our steers broke through and are over on Carson’s range now. You and Wilson and Zeke get out there and bring them back and fix that break in the fence.” Mr. Lane’s eyes narrowed as he looked at Cyrus. “And Cyrus, when that’s done, you can get the rest of this feed laid in while the other men take a head count to make sure we’re not missing any more.”
“Yes, sir.” Cyrus turned and headed slowly for the barn.
Bat started to heft a sack. Might as well take one more into the barn, since he was going anyway to get his saddle.
“Leave that, Wilson,” Mr. Lane barked. “Cyrus will get it after you bring in those strays.”
“Yes, sir.” Bat let the sack fall back onto the wagon bed and jumped over the side.
Mr. Lane dismounted and let his horse’s reins trail in the powdery dirt of the barnyard. Without another word, he headed for the house. Bat noticed Rilla peering anxiously out the kitchen door, but she ducked inside and shut the door as her father approached the front entrance.
“Draw straws to see who puts the boss’s horse up?” Zeke drawled.
“Not me,” Cyrus said. “The sooner I’m away from here, the better.” He clumped toward the feed room with his burden.
“I’ll get him.” Bat scooped up the gelding’s reins. “You boys get saddled up. I’ll catch up to you.” Mr. Lane was very particular about how his personal horses were groomed. Bat would need to walk the gelding several minutes and then brush him out before he turned the bay into the pasture. If he knew the other cowpunchers, they would take as long as they dared to drive the strays back and stretch new wire on the fence. No one wanted to be handy for a few hours when Mr. Lane was in this kind of a mood.
He groomed the horse thoroughly but as quickly as he could. The trick was to leave the horse in good shape, with no possible reason for the boss to complain, and then get out of there, where Mr. Lane couldn’t see you for a while.
After turning the boss’s horse out, he saddled his own favorite pony and headed out in the direction Zeke and Cyrus had taken. The temptation to take out Rilla’s poem was too much, and he fished the paper he’d found the evening before from his shirt pocket, so he could read it as the pony jogged along. He adjusted the brim of his hat and read the back side of the paper, the one he hadn’t read yet.
Spare and lean, the ranchman gathers his gear
For a day in the hills, chasing the steers.
Lariat, boots, pistol and chaps,
Bridle and blanket, strings and straps.
He packs light, only what he might need
To face the next cattleman’s deed.
A knife, lest the unexpected comes up,
A few matches, courage, and a small tin cup.
Now, didn’t that describe a cowpuncher to a T? Bat didn’t know about the courage, but he usually toted all that other stuff when he was heading for the range. Miss Rilla had a knack for expression. He loved the way she had balanced an important, intangible thing like courage against a nearly insignificant but very real thing like the tin cup. There must be a word for that, when writers did it. It made you think, anyhow. And feel things. That was what he liked most about her writing. It sent something straight to his heart.
He turned the battered sheet over and read once more the two lines about her longing to see more of the world. Did she really feel that way? He wished he dared to ask her sometime. With a sigh, he folded up the paper and returned it to his pocket. He’d better hurry up and join the other men, or they’d wonder what took him so long.
Rilla kept glancing out the kitchen window as she peeled carrots and potatoes for supper. Cyrus was still unloading the feed. He had another dozen sacks left, and it seemed he walked slower with each one. The sun sat low on the horizon when Bat and Zeke trotted their horses to the corral gate. They stripped off the
saddles and turned their mounts loose. Zeke put away his gear and immediately slouched into the bunkhouse. The foreman, Dwight Baker, and the other men had returned from their chores on various parts of the ranch and were already inside.
Bat came from the harness room and walked over to the buckboard, where Cyrus was wrestling yet another sack toward the tailboard.
Rilla went to the door and cracked it open. So far as she could tell, Bat didn’t say a word. He just climbed up into the wagon bed and hefted a sack of oats. Cyrus seemed to perk up a little, and in ten minutes the unloading was finished. The two men ambled toward the bunkhouse together, with Cyrus laughing at something Bat had said.
She smiled and shut the door. Her father was lucky to have a hired man like Bat, but she doubted he realized it. She hurried to get the vegetables cooking and set the table. Pa would want his supper soon. Maybe later she could spend some more time on her writing. Her poem for the contest was coming along, but she wasn’t nearly satisfied with it yet.
Her mother came into the kitchen while Rilla was laying the silverware.
“I’m afraid I haven’t been much help today.”
Rilla rounded the table and kissed her mother’s pale cheek. “It doesn’t matter. You’re supposed to be resting and getting your strength back.”
“I slept all afternoon,” Mama protested.
“You probably needed it. Here.” Rilla placed the gingham napkins in her hands. “If you want to help, you can sit down and fold these for me.”
Her mother pulled out a chair and started folding the cotton squares while Rilla finished placing the knives.
“How is your poetry coming?” Mama asked. “I do hope you’re keeping on with it.”
“I’m trying, but you know Pa doesn’t approve.” Rilla grimaced as she remembered his words last night, after he came in from his search for her. “He thinks it’s rubbish.”
“What do men know?” Mama said with a wry smile. “Are you sorry you came home, dear?”
Rilla paused in her motions and gazed at her. If she hadn’t come home, Mama would be here alone without another woman to talk to. Her nearest female neighbor was seven miles away, a young woman with two babies. If she wasn’t strong enough to ride or to drive herself a good way in a wagon, she might not see another woman for months.
“Never,” Rilla said.
“But you wanted to teach.”
“There will be time for that later, if I still want to. Right now, I intend to see you regain your health. That is my main goal for the next year.”
It was easy to say as she looked at her beloved mother’s wan face. Two hours later, when she settled down in her room, too tired to do anything else strenuous, Rilla wasn’t so sure. This land wore out some women. She wouldn’t let that happen to her, much as she loved the plains of Texas.
She got up, opened the door to her room, and looked down the hallway. Where was Woolly tonight? Last night he had come sniffing around after supper to see if she had anything for him, and then he had come with her to her room and curled up on the rag rug for a good snooze. Maybe he had favored the bunkhouse with his presence tonight. She hoped he was with Bat.
She took out her composition book. Last night she had torn out several pages of bungled efforts. Not this time. She had a good start on a tribute to the vast, open country.
Bat headed out first thing in the morning for the spring in the foothills of the north range. The foreman had ordered him to ride out there—a good four miles—and make sure the spring wasn’t clogged. The stream wending down through the pastureland seemed sluggish, and it was too early in the season for that.
He was two miles from the bunkhouse when he pulled up to look at the trickling stream. It was slow, all right. Last year it had looked like this in August, but not mid-June, and they’d had a rain not so long ago. He had picked a spotted gelding from his string that morning. Scrappy was a strong five-year-old pony with a lot of miles in him. Bat let him wade into the water and drink.
As he sat on Scrappy’s back, Bat jerked his chin up. Was that a dog or a coyote he’d heard? He listened sharply, but Scrappy chose that moment to lift his head and shake himself, making a flapping and leather-creaking that drowned all other sounds for a moment.
“Get up, you lunkhead,” Bat said, guiding him up the shallow bank to the grass. “Now, hold still.” They sat motionless for a second, and he heard it again. Something about that yip…
“It’s Woolly,” he said aloud, but Scrappy only pulled at the reins, stretching his neck to reach for a clump of grass.
Bat pulled the horse’s head up and turned him eastward, where brush grew thick along the fence line. When they reached it, he pulled up and cocked his head to one side. Scrappy snorted and pawed the ground.
“Hush, you,” Bat said. “Woolly?”
A low yip answered.
Bat jumped to the ground and hurried along the fencerow until he spotted a black-and-white pile of fur, tangled in a length of wire. They were near where the cattle had escaped the day before, and it was at once obvious that the men repairing the fence hadn’t cleaned up after themselves but had left a twelve-foot piece of rusty barbed wire lying in the bushes.
Without wire cutters, Bat knew freeing the little dog would be tricky. At least he’d worn his leather gloves.
“Hey, little fella.”
A glad light came into Woolly’s eyes when he saw Bat. He knelt beside the little dog and felt carefully to see where the wire wrapped around him. It circled his belly and one leg. Woolly began to strain and wriggle when Bat touched him.
“Easy now.” Surely Henry had taught his pet a trick that made him go all limp. “Play dead,” Bat said firmly.
Woolly whined. There must be a signal, but Bat didn’t know it.
“Play dead,” he repeated.
Woolly flopped back and lay still.
“Good dog.” Slowly, Bat peeled away the wire with infinite care, unwinding it and gently pushing the barbs out of Woolly’s skin. At last the dog was loose.
“There you go! Up, now.”
Woolly twitched, and then, sensing he was free, he leaped up and tore out across the grass, barking and frisking.
Bat stood and watched him, laughing. Woolly charged back to him and jumped on him, so high that Bat caught him in his arms. He hugged the squirming, licking, yipping spaniel.
“Good boy. You don’t seem to be too stove-up. Want to go with me to the spring?”
He took Woolly with him on the saddle, and the dog seemed content to huddle awkwardly over the pommel and Scrappy’s neck. Bat wondered how long he had lain confined by the wire. When they reached the spring, he dismounted and carefully lifted Woolly down. The dog ran immediately to the water and began to drink.
Bat’s inspection of the spring confirmed the boss’s opinion. The fountain was clogged with debris, mostly sticks and mud that had probably washed down from the hills during the last rain. He spent a half hour cleaning it out, while Woolly romped around pretending to chase nonexistent rabbits.
When he had finished the job, Bat sat down in the grass, watching Woolly’s antics. That dog sure could tear around. He flushed a grasshopper and ran after it, snapping with his teeth in between barks. Bat shook his head. Woolly was a sight to behold.
He took the paper from his pocket and unfolded it. The creases were becoming worn, but he could still read Rilla’s words clearly. He wished he could put his thoughts on paper like she could. He walked over to Scrappy and fished in the saddlebag, coming up with a stub of a pencil. The foreman had taxed them all to carry one for taking accurate head counts of the herd.
Bat sat down beside the spring and gazed at Woolly, his thoughts churning. At last he turned Rilla’s paper over and wrote,
The little dog is black and white.
He chases bugs with all his might.
An hour ago he was caught in the wire.
Bat scratched his head. What rhymed with wire? Hire, fire, liar, mire, dire. He scrawled,
/> Now you’d think his tail was on fire.
He read over his effort and frowned.
“No wonder Miss Rilla crumpled up her paper. And hers was lots better than mine.”
He turned it over and read her lines again. Hers didn’t rhyme. Maybe she was planning to rhyme every other line. Some poems did that. “Might sound better that way.”
Woolly wandered over to him, curious at the sound of his voice. He whined and looked Bat in the eye.
“I’ll bet you’re hungry, aren’t you, boy? You were probably out there all night.”
Woolly rolled over on his back in the grass, and Bat noted the cuts the barbs had made, where blood stained the white patches of his fur.
“Come on.” Bat folded the paper and put it in his pocket with the stubby pencil. He stood and picked up the dog. “Let’s get home. I’ll bet Miss Rilla would give you something to eat.”
Rilla opened the kitchen door to a timid knock. Bat Wilson stood on the stoop cradling Woolly in his arms.
“Well, hello,” she said. “What’s this?”
“Woolly had a run-in with some barbed wire. He’s not too badly hurt—he was running around after. But he’s got a few cuts, and I think he may have been stuck out there on the range since last night, and he’s probably good and hungry.”
“Bring him right in.” Rilla stepped aside so Bat could enter. “Hold on a minute.”
She took an old tablecloth from a drawer and shook it out over her worktable. “Lay him right here so I can take a look.”
Bat eased the dog onto the clean surface. “I don’t think the cuts are too deep, else he wouldn’t have run around like he did after I freed him.”
“It’s a good thing you found him,” Rilla said. She ran her fingers gently through Woolly’s fur, separating the clumps until she found several nasty-looking gouges. Woolly wriggled and stared up at her with adoring eyes. “You poor thing. Let me wash these out and put some medicine on them. Can you hold him still, Bat?”
The Cowboy’s Bride Collection: 9 Historical Romances Form on Old West Ranches Page 2