She glared at him, ready to battle on whatever front he might choose. He raised his hand, and for a slice of an instant she had the wild image of him cupping her cheek in his palm. Instead, he tugged the brim of his hat, perhaps from politeness, or perhaps simply to adjust its angle.
“As I said, ma’am, some things don’t need saying.” Before she could respond, he was gone, and she stood alone in the darkened barn with the touch of cool night air and a jumble of dissatisfying thoughts for company.
* * * *
Nick settled into the Circle T’s routine. As much a routine as any ranch had, especially one carrying a dozen hands when it needed a score.
For days at a time, he’d be gone riding the herd and learning the Circle T range. Most often Shag paired him with Andresson. That meant teaching the boy, as well as meeting his own duties, providing plenty to occupy a man.
Considering how accustomed he was to being alone, he didn’t much mind.
Davis worked hard, didn’t talk his ear off and learned no slower than most. To start, the Iowa farm boy didn’t know cattle from pigs, but his riding was better than adequate, and animals took to him. The bunkhouse dog shadowed the skinny figure, and even difficult horses minded their manners better with the towhead aboard. To Nick’s surprise, that extended to his black, Brujo, who often seemed to only tolerate Nick and came nowhere near that comfortable with anyone else.
The boys from the second drive from roundup straggled in looking worse than the lowest drags of a mangy herd. Smelled worse, too. Hands and horses alike settled in for a week of eating heavy and working light.
So, when word came of cattle in trouble. Shag sent Nick and Davis along with Joe-Max Nelson and red-headed Tommy Hodge. They found about a hundred half-dead head in a canyon closed off by a rock slide. They dug out a path, and started trailing the head a day-and-a-half up-country. At first the cattle were docile, but Nick warned that with food and water they’d revive quick enough.
The second afternoon, the small herd bolted.
“Turn ‘em!” Nick shouted above the hammering of hooves on the hard ground and the bellowing of the beasts. A glance showed Joe-Max behind him and Tommy, his red head bobbing in and out of sight as he waved his hat, on the other side, moving to circle the leaders into the herd, to form a living pinwheel that would wind itself to a stop.
But Andresson didn’t seem to hear or to remember what he’d been told. Instead of turning the leaders then letting the next rider turn them more, he went head-on with the run-crazed steers.
“Andresson! Goddammit! Turn ‘em!” Against the bellows and pounding, Nick’s shout was a feather in a tornado. He could only watch and grimly hope Andresson hadn’t used up his share of luck.
Horse and cattle charged headlong at each other. At the last second, Davis swerved his mount just out of danger from the first steer’s horns. But the herd came right behind, seeming to swallow horse and rider in a sea of dust.
If his horse stumbled, or reared, if Andresson slid out of the saddle . . .
But rather than running over him, as maddened cattle could, they split around the lone rider, and kept running.
“Which saved your hide, but meant a sight more work for the rest of us and ran off meat from head that couldn’t spare any to start,” Nick snapped at Davis hours later, after they had the animals under control and could break for water and food.
“I’m real sorry, Nick. I know you told me. I forgot.”
“Forgot?”
The blistering word produced a glowing red beneath the dust-dimmed gray of Andresson’s face.
“You might be too stupid to be worth anything, but these cows are worth something. And you don’t have the right to forget when it costs your employer money.” Nick turned on his heel and returned to the herd.
“Kind of rough on the kid, weren’t you?” Joe-Max asked hours later when he relieved Nick on night watch.
“No.” He’d seen what hooves did to a body—that was his idea of rough.
Joe-Max stroked the lush mustache that was his greatest pride. He’d been with the Circle T since they’d moved up from Platte River country. If he and Nick got to opposite sides of too many issues Nick didn’t suppose he’d be picked to stay over Joe-Max.
Finally, the other hand shrugged, and moved off. No one said anything more. But Nick noticed next time a herd ran, Davis did his part right.
Yeah, riding herd on a green youngster as well as cattle could keep a man busy. Even around the home ranch Nick kept busy. Too busy to catch more than glimpses of the Circle T’s owner, to pass more than a word of greeting, to come closer than the far end of the long table at meals.
If the image of Rachel Terhune rode along with him over the endless, rolling ground, if it settled in beside him in the bunkhouse, it was nobody’s business but his own. And nobody’s fault but his own . . . and perhaps that rattle-mouthed bartender who’d sent him to the Circle T.
* * * *
After breakfast Nick stowed two cans of tomatoes, some beans and coffee in his bags, and tied his slicker and bedroll behind Brujo’s saddle in preparation to follow Shag’s orders to look over the branding pens they’d start using next week, and to repair what needed it.
Most outfits waited for fall to catch calves missed in the general spring roundup. But if you had doubts of the other outfits branding with you in spring, summer branding could trim losses. He wondered if the Circle T’s summer branding had anything to do with the unexpectedly high losses from last winter Shag had mentioned.
“Nick!”
He turned at the foreman’s shout to see Shag and Rachel crossing the yard. He went ahead and mounted.
Otherwise he might have been tempted to spend the time waiting for them by watching the Widow Terhune. She had a way of walking. No prissy little steps like some women. Purposeful, but graceful. It set the split skirts she wore swaying. And that hint of movement had him thinking on what might be hidden with an uncomfortable amount of interest He twisted around as if a bedroll tie needed attending.
“Nick, we want a word with you,” Shag started.
Nick’s eyes slid to Rachel. She seldom looked as if she wanted a word with him. Mostly she looked as if she wished he’d disappear. Right now was no exception.
“We’ve been talking it over,” the foreman went on, “and with branding coming up and all, I’ll need somebody else out there giving orders, official like, so everybody knows what’s what. We’d like that to be you.”
“How about the others?” A newcomer set up as boss might rouse ill feeling. He didn’t mind for himself, but the Circle T needed all its hands pulling together.
“Shouldn’t be a problem. They’ve taken to you. And when Bert Overton—that’s the hand who had the job before—went over to Thomas Dunn, nobody asked about stepping up. I think they’ll know you’re the one who can handle it. We know that’s the way of it.”
Nick figured Shag’s statements went for only half of that “we” he kept throwing around. As if feeling his look, Rachel raised her head and met his eyes. Hers held a belligerent glitter.
“There’d be no more pay with this,” she declared.
“Chell . . .” Shag’s protest died quickly. Nick figured the old man knew he’d dragged her about as far she’d go.
Nick crossed his arms and leaned forward over the saddle horn, enjoying himself.
“No, ma’am, didn’t expect there would be.”
“All right then. Shag will tell the others and it’ll take effect with calf branding.”
“Yes’m,” he said, with no attempt at meekness or gratitude, and the grin still in place as he turned Brujo and headed out.
Shag’s exasperated grunt trailed after him. “Chell, what’s got into you?”
* * * *
Three mornings later, a note arrived from Thomas Dunn announcing his intention of stopping around noon on his way toward Cheyenne.
Shag had already ridden out, so he wouldn’t be on hand as an ally. But Ruth had time
to bake her special vinegar pie. Rachel changed from a split skirt into the riding skirt and bodice Ruth had remade from one of her mother’s riding habits.
She raised her chin at the mirror as she brushed her hair out of its braid in order to pin it up. So, her dress was outmoded. The sapphire-blue wool was good and the fit adequate, especially considering the adjustments required to accommodate the extra half a foot height she had over her mother.
All in all, she looked quite presentable, Rachel told herself.
Dunn declared her lovely when he accepted her invitation to take midday dinner. But, then, that was his way. Slender and not quite eye to eye with Rachel, he had a reputation for smooth manners and sharp business.
The business purpose of this call—she’d figured there had to be one—was his interest in a two-year-old filly she had.
“Matt Sprewell speaks quite highly of her,” Dunn said.
Rachel didn’t want to part with that filly, but if Dunn offered a good price, she’d be hard-pressed to say no.
“There’s a three-year-old filly, Fanny we call her, you might want to look at instead, Mr. Dunn. She’s saddlebroke and she’s training real nice.”
“I prefer to train my horses myself. I find your methods, Mrs. Terhune, produce a horse more suited to a pet than a tool. A lady-broke animal’s not much use on the range.”
He gave her a smile she felt disinclined to return. Gentling instead of breaking horses improved disposition and still made fine cow ponies. But try to persuade old-timers.
“And that being the case,” he went on, “it is the two-year-old I would care to see.”
So, after the meal—Ruth saw to it he wouldn’t get anything finer tasting at the KD, for all those tins he imported from back East—Rachel had the sidesaddle put on Dandy and they began at a sedate, proper pace toward the north corral. Conversation focused on water, weather, dealing with hands, railroads and stock prices. Rachel was aware Dunn asked more than he told, but her answers didn’t lay open the Circle T’s situation. Though this astute man surely guessed, she wouldn’t hand over the certainty.
So intent was she on sidestepping any revealing answers that it was Dunn who pointed out the rider coming over a fold of hill toward them. Nick Dusaq.
“Stranger to me,” commented Dunn.
“One of our new hands.”
Dunn gave her a long look, but she said no more until they all met near the pole fence of the north corral. Nick could have ridden by with a word or gesture of greeting, but he stopped, his eyes going from her to the man beside her with an apparent lazy disinterest that she’d wager didn’t miss a detail.
She performed introductions and, to her surprise, Thomas Dunn offered a handshake. Nick returned it. Polite, but in no danger of being overly impressed. “Mr. Dunn owns the KD outfit east of here. You might’ve heard of it. It’s the biggest in these parts.”
“But doesn’t yet produce the sort of horseflesh the Circle T does,” Dunn said with an ambiguous smile. “I’m here to look over a two-year-old I’ve heard about.”
Nick slid a look at the sidesaddle rig on Dandy. Rachel was very much aware he’d seen her riding only astride before, and that he knew this bow to propriety was in Dunn’s honor.
She tensed, followed by a wave of irritation—at herself and at Nick. Considering how little the man talked, she spent considerable time worrying what he might say.
“I’ll get her,” was all he said now.
He’d started Brujo toward the fence before Rachel realized he meant the filly, who along with two mares had found the humans and horses just outside their fence too fascinating to ignore.
Rachel felt both grateful and irked that she had need to be grateful. What had she been thinking of, coming out so ill-prepared? She not only didn’t have a prayer of roping from this sidesaddle, she hadn’t brought a rope. She wouldn’t have asked a guest—especially not this guest who hardly seemed to attract a speck of dust to his specially tailored clothes—to swing a rope, but she could have tried from the ground. Though then she would have faced how to remount short of asking Dunn’s aid.
Belatedly, she nudged Dandy forward. “I’ll get the pole,” she told Nick stiffly.
He nodded. From Dandy’s back, she lifted an end of the loose top pole from its crossed supports and slid it aside. Brujo sailed over the remaining rails.
The filly and mares scattered, but Brujo was too fast and he—or his rider—was too smart. The filly’s escape route closed in a second. It was impossible to tell if Nick gave his horse orders, or if the animal just knew. They seemed to move as one, with a flow and balance that made her draw in her breath. She’d seen good horsemen—her pa included—and she’d seen good cow ponies. This combination went beyond that.
The filly’s feint to the right was anticipated beautifully. When she pivoted to try the left. Nick’s rope looped out in a swoop of movement, and the open circle settled over her head.
Dunn urged his compact gray over the lower two rails to get nearer the filly, and Rachel followed on Dandy.
Nick handed her the filly’s lead rope. “Thank you,” she said.
“Welcome.”
Dunn apparently thought something more was called for beyond this terse exchange. “Nice work. Nick,”
Nick nodded an acknowledgment “And that’s a nice piece of horseflesh,” Dunn added, his gray eyes running over Brujo’s sleek, powerful lines.
Nick nodded again. With some men, Rachel might have figured it as a case of being tongue-tied in the presence of the most important man in the territory. Not Nick Dusaq.
“Where’d you get him?”
“Texas.”
“A lot of good cow ponies from down that way,” the older man said with a faint smile. Texans were notorious for bragging on their horses. He seemed certain that would start the talk flowing.
Nick sat easily in the saddle, the unshadowed portion of his face showing nothing, and remained silent.
If Thomas Dunn was surprised, he didn’t show it. But he became more direct. “You’re from Texas?”
“Yes.”
“I’ve done a good bit of business in that part of the world. Who are your people?”
Nick shifted, and Rachel could see his dark eyes level on the other man. With no emotion, he answered. “Take your pick.”
“Not sure what you mean.” For the first time a ripple disturbed the placid confidence of Dunn’s voice.
“If you’re wanting to know if I’ve got some Indian in me, the answer’s yes. And Mexican. And Irish, Polish and Italian. Could be more.”
Under the evenness of his tone, Rachel thought she heard a note of bitterness. Nick had named nearly every group she’d heard derided in these parts; Texas couldn’t be that different.
“Surely you’ve left one off? French,” Dunn prompted when Nick didn’t answer. He smiled again. Rachel wondered if she imagined a bite behind it. “With a name like Dusaq you must have some French.”
“French Canadian,” Nick said.
“Ah. Well, I claim nothing so exotic. I come of straight, solid English stock. My father brought the family over when I was barely out of short pants. His father ran horses, and I like to think I’ve inherited his horse sense. I like what I see there.” He nodded toward Brujo. “What would you take for him?”
“He’s not for sale.”
“I can see you’re not hawking the animal. And I’m sure you’re quite comfortable on the wage Mrs. Terhune can pay you, but I’m still willing to make you an offer on this beast.” Rachel’s cheeks stung at the reference to Nick’s wage. Not only didn’t she pay most of her hands as much as Dunn or Gordon Wood paid theirs, but she paid Nick considerably less than he was worth, and they both knew it.
She was looking straight between Dandy’s ears when the cowhand’s voice came, as even as ever.
“He’s not for sale no matter what the offer, so I’ll say good-day to you and get about earning that wage Mrs. Terhune pays me. I’ll get my rope later, ma’am.�
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With a nod, he was gone.
Dunn’s eyes followed horse and rider. “That’s a nice animal,” he murmured. He turned to Rachel with a rather pitying smile. “I’m not so sure about the man, Mrs. Terhune. It can be hard to tell with a man like that. You’d best be careful.”
Anger spurred at her, but she gave her blandest smile. “His work’s satisfactory, though I’ll be sure to pass on your thoughts to Shag.”
As Dunn dismounted and moved in for a closer look at the filly, jumbled reactions kept Rachel’s insides jumping. With a low-heat anger that he had tried, as he so often did, to put Nick in his place. And with a reluctant admiration for how the cowhand dealt with it. But mostly with a surprisingly vehement relief. Because one thing was certain: Thomas Dunn wouldn’t try to hire away Nick Dusaq.
Chapter Three
Dunn didn’t take the filly.
That didn’t surprise Nick any.
The powerful rancher left with slick compliments for the horseflesh he’d seen and smiling promises that with visitors from the East coming to the KD Ranch in the next few months, he’d send any looking to purchase quality horses Rachel’s way.
Rachel said thank you, pretty as you please. But Nick didn’t believe for a second she had cause for gratitude, not now and not in the future.
He didn’t figure the man had come to look at horseflesh at all. He’d come to see the outfit’s condition. And maybe to look over another kind of flesh.
That last thought left Nick so edgy that two days after Dunn’s visit he volunteered to go to town for mail and to fill a supply list that had grown long since spring’s outfitting in Cheyenne.
“Could use you here,” Shag protested.
“I got business.”
The foreman studied him, then gave a curt nod of acceptance, without asking what business.
Nick would have told if he’d asked, and that likely would have ended his stay at the Circle T. Because what he did in town was talk to the banker handling the estate of a certain Enoch Wallace.
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