An Impossible Price: Front Range Brides - Book 3

by Davalynn Spencer

  She slid farther beneath the quilts and rolled to her side, releasing her hold on what she wanted, letting her dreams slide down the side of her face and onto the pillow.

  ~

  Dawn came clear and cloudless, just as it had the last four days. Clay stood near the snub post in the round corral, watching the stallion circle at an easy trot, no hitch in its gait, no favoring of the back leg sliced open in the stock car a month before. A wicked scar cut across Xavier’s gleaming coat, and Clay doubted it would fade much over time. But the horse was sound, its purpose unhindered. It had healed well.

  The black was waiting for Clay at the barn, their morning routine settling in as habit. Clay had spent more time with Xavier and the sorrel than this horse, so he was making up for lost time before Parker let him go. His month was nearly over. He tacked up, swung to the leather, and rode north.

  The first breeze freshened, perfumed by pine off the mountain. He breathed deeply, with eyes as well as lungs, taking in the beauty of the lower range that blushed with new grass and fiery paint brush.

  On recommendation from one of his instructors at the college, he’d apprenticed with a horse doctor in Missouri. Working with everything from draft horses to pony pets of the wealthy had taught him more than he’d learned in two years at veterinary school. Had he stayed in that part of the country, he could have had a lucrative business. But the West called, Colorado in particular. These high parks and a gal with summer-brown hair more specifically.

  Until last week, he’d thought he had all three.

  He squeezed Clarence Thatcher from his thoughts and his heels to the black, cutting down an easy slope to the bull pasture at the bottom.

  Drawing rein, he counted heads, spotting a calf with every animal except one.

  Alarm snaked up the back of his neck, and he counted again. A calf with every animal except one.

  A yearling bull was missing.

  He dropped into the pasture, where he checked corners, low spots, and behind the stockpiled hay. Slowly, he rode the perimeter, a clear image of Sophie’s mare in his head, though he knew he wouldn’t find a similar fate. But larkspur and wild iris would kill an animal. He scoured the pasture for sign of the toxic flowers, and that’s when he saw the busted third strand on the west side—an open door to the high country and trouble.

  The black took him home at a good clip.

  ~

  With Deacon gone, Clay and Parker were on their own. Blue trailed Parker, and this time Cougar wasn’t locked in a stall. The lush grass held no sign of the bull’s recent passage, but they found a flattened spot not far from a shallow pond where a bear had bedded down. The hair on the back of Clay’s neck rose, and he slid the Winchester in its boot, checking for easy access.

  Parker carried the same.

  If the bull had bogged down in a wet spot, it’d be bear bait, as well as easy pickings for coyote and cat.

  They climbed the edge of the park toward aspen and pine, but the dogs gave no sign in the timber. Turning back, they followed a low ridge that sloped into a gully where willows clustered in the bottom. Three deer raised their heads, watched for a moment, then bounded up the opposite side.

  Clay pointed out a dark patch at the far end where the ravine drained into a thicket. Could be the bull or deadfall, hard to tell from a distance. “What do you think?”

  “Let’s take a look.”

  Blue caught wind of something and shot off like a dart, Cougar fast on his heels.

  The closer they rode to the thicket, the more racket the dogs made, running back and forth, growling and yapping.

  Clay spotted the bull bogged in a quagmire, sunk up to its belly, but the dogs weren’t after it.

  The hair on his neck rose.

  The bull bellowed.

  Branches snapped like gunfire.

  A bear crashed through the thicket.

  One swipe of its claws sent Blue flying with a yelp. Cougar ran around behind the creature, snipping and slashing, drawing it off Blue.

  The grizzly never made a sound. Just lumbered after Cougar, the silver-tipped hairs on its shoulders rolling with each swipe of its massive paws.

  Both Clay and Parker drew their rifles, took careful aim, and fired from the saddle. The bear lunged at Cougar, then toppled headfirst to the ground, motionless.

  Clay’s heart hammered in his chest, the beat echoing in his throat and temple. His hands were sweaty. He booted the rifle, then reined the black around the end of the wash and toward the grizzly. Not keen on the smell, the horse shied and danced a wide circle in spite of Clay’s spurs.

  Parker held his rifle on the bear in the unlikely event of a sudden resurrection.

  Convinced it was dead, they dropped a loop on the bull’s head and another around its backside and pulled it out of the bog. When it came clear, Parker flicked his loop off, recoiled and threw another around the head.

  With two ropes and the predatory smell of bear behind it, the young bull had no trouble finding its home pasture.

  Parker ran it in a corner, where they tied up a leg and dropped it. Clay checked it over for injuries, satisfying himself it was no worse for wear, but with a warning. “We’ll need to keep an eye on his feet. Depending on how long he was in that bog, he could end up with hoof rot.”

  After fixing the break in the fence, they mounted and headed for the barn. Blue wasn’t with them.

  “I’ll go look for him,” Clay offered.

  Parker pulled his hat lower, shook his head, and turned back. “See you at the house.”

  Weren’t too many things closer than a man and his dog, and no matter what Parker found, it needed to be him that found it.

  Clay rode up the back of Pine Hill, past the ponderosa and the two crosses beneath it. There were no guarantees in this country that a man would make it home at night. If it wasn’t a blizzard, it was lightning. Bears or mountain lions. A hoof in a badger hole and a bad fall. He realized it more now than ever.

  He also realized he’d faced that bear without a second thought, eerily calm in the moment. But he couldn’t share his scars with a woman he loved.

  ~

  When Clay walked through the front door without Parker, Mae Ann came out of her chair on the run. He caught her by the arms. “He’s all right. He’s not far behind, bringing in Blue.”

  She collapsed against him and he led her back to the chair.

  Willy looked up from where he played on the floor with a pull toy. “Papa?”

  Clay squatted next to him and ruffled his hair. “He’ll be here in a minute.”

  “Did you find the bull?” Mae Ann’s voice betrayed her real concern that far outweighed whether they’d found a lost bovine.

  “We did and we got him back. Fixed the fence as well. Your husband is safe, he just needed to do this on his own.”

  She stiffened, eyes tightening with alarm. “What happened? Is Blue hurt?”

  “Let’s just say he’s got a big heart.”

  Understanding his message, she worried her collar. Willy must have read the gesture, for he left his toy horse and climbed into her lap.

  “Mind if I make some coffee?”

  She looked up, confused, like she didn’t know how to answer. “Yes. I mean no. I’ll start some for you.”

  Clay lifted a hand. “I’ll get it. You just rest.”

  The front door blew open, and Parker trudged in with the bloody dog and laid it on the hearth.

  “Willy, come help me make coffee.” Mae Ann took her son by the hand, dragging the wide-eyed boy to the kitchen.

  Blue was barely breathing. Four long gashes opened his right side, ribs stark white against the flesh.

  Clay went for his saddlebags. When he returned, fresh towels and a pan of warm water waited beside the dog. He clipped blood-matted hair from the lacerations, and Blue whined weakly when he sterilized the area. A good sign.

  “He may be alert enough to feel this, so hold him as still as you can.”

  Parker nodded, hi
s face pale and drawn.

  An hour later, bloodied water filled the pan next to the bandaged dog. Clay sterilized his needle and scissors and returned everything to the leather pouch.

  Mae Ann brought in a tray of coffee and biscuits.

  “No bones were broken, no arteries severed, but he lost a lot of blood. We’ve done all we can,” Clay said. “It’s up to the Lord now.”

  The last phrase felt odd on his tongue. He’d never said it before because he hadn’t believed it before.

  He took his bags to the cabin, unsaddled the horses, and turned them out, pleased with how the black had held up under rifle fire. When he got back to the house, Cougar was lying on the front step. He lifted mournful eyes and let out a long low whine.

  Clay stooped to rub his back and sides. “Give him time, boy. He’s got to heal up and he’s no youngster. You did good today. Real good.”

  Clay stepped over the dog, pegged his hat on the wall, and washed again in the kitchen. Mae Ann had a late dinner cooking on the stove, but he doubted any of it would be eaten until that evening.

  Parker had started a fire on the hearth, more out of something to do than the need for warmth. But there was no telling how the night would turn. It could be snowing again by morning.

  It was well after dark when Mae Ann took Willy upstairs and Clay stretched out in her chair. Parker sat in the other, nursing cold coffee and staring at his dog. Praying, Clay figured.

  The fire crackled, a comforting sound. Clay added a couple more logs and brought in hot coffee.

  “Blue was my father’s dog.”

  The graveled comment came low and quiet, more of a thought than spoken words.

  “It took some time before I stopped hating him. Same with my father.”

  Shock roused Clay from fatigue as well as his assumptions. He’d figured Parker Land and Cattle hadn’t had much trouble, at least among the people. No operation ran smoothly when cattle were involved, but a family spread—well, that always gave him a homesick feeling for what he’d never known and wished he had.

  “You didn’t know that, did you?” Parker tore his weary eyes from the dog and looked at Clay.

  “No, sir.” Deacon had mentioned Parker’s pa being hard to get on with, but he hadn’t mentioned the dog.

  Parker huffed and turned back to the fire. “My father and I rarely saw eye to eye. Then he and my mother died in a blizzard and I blamed him. Hated him. For years. Took a while before I didn’t see or think of him every time I looked at Blue.”

  He leaned forward, elbows on knees. “Not until Mae Ann came along was I able to forgive him.”

  Unsettled by the confession that hit too close to home, Clay sensed Parker wasn’t finished.

  “Hate will kill a man. Eat him alive from the inside out.”

  The skin on Clay’s back twitched.

  “Forgiveness carries a high price, but it’s worth it.”

  No words came. Clay had nothing to say or give. Only an ache in his leg, a burning in his chest, and what he thought he hadn’t heard Bittman say last Sunday—

  … our Father in heaven.

  Chapter 23

  Daylight sneaked into the predawn sky and birds chittered in the cottonwoods as Clay saddled Duster. Parker wanted him to stay on while Deacon was gone, and he’d agreed to give him a week, with a day to follow up on veterinary calls.

  The gelding was eager to ride, liking the way morning tasted and the scent of cedar and sage. But Clay didn’t like not having Sophie around. He missed the sound of her laughter, her crooked smile, and the way she felt in his arms. The way he felt when she was in his arms. But she’d given him an ultimatum.

  And Thatcher had rushed the gap.

  The gelding stretched into a lope, cued by tension in Clay’s legs. He’d believed Sophie had no use for the hotel owner, and bile stirred his belly over what he’d seen on Sunday. But he’d been so off kilter after Bittman’s sermon, he might have seen wrong.

  Clay thought he’d stopped listening after “our Father,” but it curled around him last night like Cougar around Willy in the storm. Our Father in heaven, Bittman had said. Not my father or the father, but our, implying family. What would that father be like? Certainly unlike the one he’d known growing up.

  The sun winked above the horizon, and he dipped his hat brim. New every morning.

  The words came each day now, his ma’s gentle voice so full of faith and promise. She’d known that Father and had tried to show Him to Clay. Would have shown him more if she’d lived.

  Guilt swept in like a low-bellied cloud, smothering what little hope had sprouted. He been two years older than Willy when the barn caught fire and his world with it.

  Everything was different after that—everything except what his ma had said and he’d forgotten, drowned by his father’s drunken rages, the cursing of his name, and the burden of blame.

  ~

  Olin Springs lay half asleep. Merchants swept the boardwalk in front of their businesses, and smoke curled from a few chimneys. Bozeman stood outside in a clean apron, his broom a toothpick next to his bulk. He nodded as Clay rode by. Coffee and bear sign would have to wait until after the livery.

  “Mornin’, Mr. Ferguson.” John leaned his pitchfork against a stall. “Buster Lockhart was just here in a panic about his milk cow. She’s havin’ a hard time of it, and he thinks her calf is comin’ breach.”

  “Just here? Where’s he live?”

  “'Bout a half mile north out of town, right turn off the road.”

  Clay tossed him a coin. “Obliged.”

  “The widow Fairfax was in too. Erik said to tell you if you stopped in.”

  “Appreciate it.”

  Clay found the smithy at his forge, stoking the fire.

  He stabbed the poker through the coals and glanced up.

  “Frau Fairfax takes the train tomorrow and wants you to drive her. She moves to Denver.”

  Sooner than Clay had figured. “I can do that.”

  “You bought her place.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Gut. You will be closer.”

  Clay waited another minute, but Erik was a thrifty man with words as well as money. When he picked up an iron blank with his tongs and shoved it in the fire, Clay knew he’d said his piece.

  Morning was still cool beyond the livery doors, and Clay left Bozeman’s bear sign behind and rode north to Buster Lockhart’s farm. The man was right about his cow, and it took so long to turn the calf, Clay figured it’d be dead. He figured wrong. He and Lockhart threw their backs into a final pull, and a good-sized bull calf slid out onto the straw. Clay cleared its nose, rubbed it down with straw, and let nature take over.

  New life was one of the more pleasant aspects to his work, but his clothes didn’t look so pleasant when he reined in at Mrs. Fairfax’s hitch rail.

  “Ma’am,” he said, tipping his hat, the only part of him that wasn’t soiled. He’d washed as best he could at Lockhart’s, but it hadn’t done much for his shirt.

  “Didn’t recognize you.” She gave him a once-over, then eye-balled his horse. “Him either.”

  “No, ma’am. I imagine not.”

  “I’m leaving tomorrow.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Would you like me to drive you to the train?”

  She pulled her hankie out and folded it over a couple times. “It leaves at eight sharp. Or as sharp as can be expected.”

  “I’ll be here.”

  “I have trunks to load.”

  “I’ll be here early.”

  She looked at his trousers and shirt.

  “Delivered a calf at Lockhart’s. Haven’t had a chance to clean up yet.”

  She sniffed and dabbed at her nose. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

  He tipped his hat again and reined away from a woman who was leaving behind everything she’d known and loved. He hoped her daughter understood that.

  Bozeman was clean out of bear sign, and Clay was too dirty to sit among folks tryi
ng to eat. He rode back to the ranch wondering if Deacon had a copper tub for bathing. After turning Duster out, he settled for the creek and a soap cake.

  The next morning he unsaddled Duster at the Fairfax ranch and left him in the corral. He harnessed the widow’s buggy horse, about the same age and condition as Sophie’s old mare, and hoped it didn’t keel over before he got the buckboard around to the front of the house. But he had no choice. Duster didn’t pull, and they didn’t need a rodeo on the way to the train.

  Several bags and small crates waited on the porch. So did Mrs. Fairfax.

  “Mornin’ ma’am. Looks like you’re ready to go.”

  She stared at him as if he were daft, then went inside. “Come help me with my trunks” wafted through the screen door.

  He figured the old horse wouldn’t bolt but set the brake anyway and found two steamer trunks waiting in the main room, open and half empty.

  “Everything goes inside,” she said. “I don’t want to worry about losing something important. I’ll fill one and you fill the other with what’s on the porch.”

  She was as frugal in her packing as she was her conversation, and they were soon driving up the lane toward the dip in the hills.

  “Stop.”

  He obliged her, and she turned in the seat and looked back on the ranch just coming to life in the morning sun, fresh and verdant. Cow-calf pairs grazed, unaware that their recent owner was on her way out. A rooster crowed, the windmill creaked, and thin clouds stretched pink above the mountains.

  “All right.” She turned back around, stiff as the wagon bed.

  At the depot, Clay hefted her trunks to the platform and waited while she went inside for whatever it was she needed. He’d already seen her ticket clutched tightly in her right hand. The liniment must be working.

  When she returned, her eyes were red-rimmed.

  “Are the library ladies seeing you off?”

  She considered her ticket and straightened the crumpled edges. “I’m not fond of lengthy, tear-filled farewells. I said my piece at the last meeting, as did they.” She looked at him. “You don’t have to stay.”

  Relieved by her down-to-earth attitude, he relaxed. But he’d stay. Wasn’t right to leave a woman in her situation alone.