John shook his head. He’d never understand women. Not if he lived to be one hundred and ten years old.
“You ready?” he asked.
She nodded, then swiveled her head left and right, uncertain. She’d said she was a rider. She’d lied. Near as he could tell, she wasn’t sure which side to mount on—a basic skill of horsemanship. In deference to her novice ability, he grasped her around the waist and easily lifted her, surprised by her diminutive weight.
She was slight and delicate, vulnerable and threatening all at the same time. As she sheepishly attempted to cover her ankles, he averted his gaze. The self-conscious action sparked a burst of sorrow in his chest. Someone as proud and brave as Moira deserved a wardrobe full of new dresses that dusted the ground, like a well-heeled lady.
Quelling his wayward emotions, he turned away. To his enormous relief, the livery owner scuffled into the corral, splintering the tense moment.
The older man gestured toward the stables. “What am I supposed to do with that fellow in the stall?”
“Let him out when he wakes up,” John called over his shoulder. “You don’t know anything.”
“True enough,” the man replied. “True enough.”
Moira adjusted her feet in the stirrups and stared down at John. She must have discovered the starch in her spine while his back had been turned. She sat up straighter, her face a stern mask of disapproval. “You better not double-cross us, mister.”
The obvious rebuke in her voice triggered a long-forgotten memory. Years ago at a family wedding he’d joked with Ruth Ann, his on-again, off-again sweetheart, about getting married. She’d looked him straight in the eye, her disappointment in him painfully clear. “You’re too easygoing. I need someone who can take care of me.”
Ruth Ann had married his best friend instead. They had five kids and a pecan farm not far from the Elder ranch.
John had set out to prove himself, and so far he’d come up short. He couldn’t even take care of a herd of cows, let alone this vulnerable woman with her sorrowful, wounded eyes.
“I won’t double-cross you,” he replied evenly.
Moira’s fears weren’t unwarranted, just misdirected. He wasn’t a hero. There was no one riding to the rescue and the sooner he separated from this bunch the better. Before they found out they’d placed their fragile hopes on the wrong man.
There was something else going on here, and he wasn’t the man to sort it out.
Chapter Three
A short time later Moira swung off her horse and pain lanced up her legs. She winced, hobbling a short distance. She’d ridden a handful of times before and understood the rudimentary skills, but she wasn’t nearly as confident as she’d let on.
She’d thought she’d fooled John Elder. The sympathy in his perceptive eyes had exposed her mistake. He’d known she was a fraud, and he’d been too polite to voice his observation. She’d paid the price for her bravado. With each step, her untried muscles screamed in protest. She unwittingly sank deeper into John Elder’s coat and inhaled its comforting scent.
Over the years she’d come to associate two smells with men—cloying, headache-inducing cologne and the pungent scent of exertion. John’s coat smelled different, a combination of animal, man and smoldering wood. The unfamiliar mixture was strange and soothing. Despite the cool night, warmth spread through her limbs.
Shadows dotted the horizon, silhouetted against the moonlight. Restless cattle lowed at their arrival and Moira shivered. The glow of a fire marked the center of the camp. A wagon and three oatmeal-colored canvas tents were pitched in an arc around the cheery flames. The orderly sight was reassuring.
When she’d turned eighteen, she’d left the Giffords with little more than the clothes on her back. The gentleman who’d delivered their milk took pity on her and talked his brother-in-law into giving her a job. The brother-in-law owned a hotel and she cooked and cleaned for her room and board. She’d even kept in touch with the delivery boy from the grocer, and he’d promised to tell her if Tommy returned to the Giffords.
She’d never have considered it possible, but she’d traveled the West in style up until now. Moving from train depot to train depot, staying among people, clinging to the last vestiges of civilization, keeping her adventures urbane. Everything beyond the trampled town streets was wild and untapped.
While she drank in her new surroundings, John gathered the girls into a tight circle and spoke, “These cattle aren’t easily spooked, but they’re not used to your voices or your scents. They don’t know you’re a bunch of harmless girls. No loud noises or sudden moves. Stay within fifteen feet of the fire at all times. Once an animal that size stampedes, there’s no stopping.”
Hazel fiddled with the drooping rickrack on her hem. “Can we pet them?”
“Not now,” the cowboy replied without a hint of impatience. “Maybe in the morning. It’s for your own good. I’m keeping you safe.”
Safe. Moira hugged her arms around her chest. They weren’t safe. They’d simply turned down the flame. That didn’t mean they were any better off than they were before. Well, except the odds were better and the doors weren’t locked. They could run if they chose.
John whistled softly and a blur of white and brown padded into view. Moira took an involuntary step backward. A large gold-and-white collie appeared. The dog took its place at John’s heel and tilted its head. The cowboy absently patted the animal’s ears.
The four girls immediately rushed forward.
“He’s so cute!”
“What kind of dog is he?”
“Can he sleep with us tonight?”
John held up his hands. “Easy there. This is a working dog. He’s not real friendly.”
Moira craned her neck for a better view. The “working” dog had rolled onto its back. Its pink tongue lolled out the side of its snout while four paws gently sawed the air.
Darcy snickered. “He looks pretty friendly to me.”
Though the dog appeared harmless, Moira kept her distance. She’d been bitten once and the experience had left her wary. Dogs were unpredictable and temperamental. Best not to get too close.
Hazel rubbed her hand along the puff of fur of the dog’s belly. “What’s her name?”
“His name is Dog.”
“He’s far too handsome for such a plain name,” Sarah declared, rubbing one furry ear between her thumb and forefinger. “I think we should call him Champion.”
“Or Spot,” Hazel added.
Darcy shook her head. “That’s stupid. Why would we call him Spot? He doesn’t have a single spot on him.”
The cowboy pressed two fingers against his temple. “He doesn’t need a name. He’s already got a name.”
“Dog is a silly name,” Hazel grumbled. “Just like Bullhead is a silly name. You’re not very good at naming pets.”
John smothered a grin with one hand. “I’ve been accused of a lot of shortcomings, but I have to say that’s a new one.”
“Then we’ll give him a better name.” Hazel backed away several paces. “Come here, Champion.”
The dog trotted over.
Though the cowboy’s face remained impassive, Moira noted the rise and fall of his chest as he heaved an exasperated breath.
She grudgingly admired John’s even temper. Weak with hunger, her mood swung between rage and despair at a moment’s notice. Right now she’d give anything for a soft bed and a slice of pie. Apple pie. A thick cut of crispy crust. She pictured cinnamon-flecked filling oozing between the tines of her fork. Her mouth watered and she swayed on her feet.
“What’s all this?” another voice called.
Moira snapped to attention. A squat man emerged from the farthest tent. As round as he was tall, his bowed legs were exactly half of his size. A shock of gray hair topped his perfectl
y round head and his plump face was smooth and cleanly shaven. He adjusted his belt and crossed his arms over his chest.
The cowboy tossed a log onto the fire, sending a shower of sparks drifting skyward. “I’ve brought you some mouths to feed.”
“What happened to the fellows?”
“Gone.”
The abrupt answer piqued Moira’s curiosity.
“Good riddance, I say,” the older man replied. “Not a decent one in the lot.”
John grunted and motioned between the squat man and the girls. “This is Pops. Pops, this is Darcy, Tony, Sarah, and little Hazel. They’ll be staying with us tonight. And they could all use some grub.”
John motioned Moira forward. “And this is Miss O’Mara, she’s in charge of the girls.”
“Well, not exactly, I wouldn’t say—” Moira stuttered over her scattered explanation.
She was the outsider.
No one ever put her in charge of anything, let alone anyone. Her vagabond life from orphan to foundling had shaped her into an expert at dealing with rejection. She spent her time hovering on the fringes, unnoticed. She came and went before anyone had a chance to know her.
Folks didn’t trust loners. Which at times she found annoying, especially considering the people who’d betrayed her trust most egregiously were the ones she’d known best of all.
Pops extended his hand. “Pleased to meet you, Miss.”
Moira offered a quick shake and a weak smile.
“You look fit to eat your shoe leather,” the old man continued. “Let me fetch something that’ll stick to your ribs.”
“I’ll help,” Sarah offered quickly.
Moira blinked. As the most shy of the bunch, she hadn’t expected Sarah to step forward.
The next twenty minutes passed in a blur. Moira and the girls ate quickly, devouring the simple stew with gusto. Their chattering gradually quieted and their shoulders drooped. Pops and John rustled up a stack of blankets and Moira arranged them inside the tent nearest the warming fire. Once all four girls had pulled the covers over their shoulders, she sat back on her heels.
The dog wove his way through the tent, sniffing each girl in turn before returning outside and lying before the closed tent flaps and resting its snout on outstretched paws.
With her hunger sated for the first time in days, Moira transformed from bone-weary exhaustion into a bundle of nerves. Not tired, but not quite awake either. She was anxious and uncertain. The evening had been a chaotic ride fraught with danger. There’d been a time when she would have lit a precious candle and read until her restlessness passed, but she hadn’t either a book or a candle.
Emerging from the tent, she gingerly stepped over Champion before arching her back. John crouched before the fire, arranging the logs with the whittled point of a stick.
Moira glanced around. “Where’s Pops?”
“Asleep.” John relaxed against his cinched bedroll and stretched out his legs, crossing his ankles and lacing his hands behind his head. His hat sat low on his forehead, shadowing his eyes as the firelight danced over the planes of his face. “I’ve never seen Pops that agreeable. It’s worth having you girls around to enjoy his rare good temper.”
Moira scoffed. “You’re pulling my leg.” The grandfatherly man was as gentle as a spring lamb.
“Don’t let him fool you. He’s meaner than a sack full of rattlesnakes.”
She shrugged out of John’s coat and approached the cowboy. “Thanks for letting me borrow this.”
“Keep it.”
Too tired for arguing, Moira put it back on. Stretching her arms through the sleeves once more, she inhaled his reassuring scent. She sat cross-legged before the cheery blaze, her hands folded in her lap. Cocooned by darkness, she was content with the silence between them, comforted by the lowing cattle and the crackling fire. Gradually the tension in her sore muscles eased.
The flames danced in the breeze, orange and yellow with an occasional flash of blue at the base. A fire not contained by brick and mortar was foreign. More beautiful and compelling.
John glanced across the distance, shadows flickering across his face. “The girls okay?”
Moira nodded.
“Did anything happen back there?” He tipped back his hat, revealing his clear and sympathetic eyes. “Anything more?”
Moira knew what he was asking, and she answered as best she could. “I don’t think so. We were all taken this evening and locked in together.”
A sigh of relief lowered his shoulders. “Thank God.”
He visibly relaxed, and she realized he’d been carrying the tension since he’d counted the windows. He hadn’t known she was watching, but she’d observed his studied concentration, seen his face change when he’d recognized the brothel.
“Amen to that,” she replied quietly.
The question had cost him, that much was clear, and Moira admired his courage. It was easier ignoring the evil in life, easier looking away than facing wicked truths. Most folks would rather skirt a puddle than fix the drain.
She replayed the events of the night in her head. What did she know about John Elder—other than he smelled like an autumn breeze and looked like he should be advertising frock coats on a sketched fashion plate. Not that looks and scent counted for much. She knew he was driving his cattle north because he was trying to prove himself. He didn’t appear the sort of man who’d let someone else hold him back.
Unable to curtail her curiosity, she braced her hands against her bent knees. “Where is the rest of your crew?”
“They went bad on me. Or maybe I went bad on them. It’s hard telling sometimes.”
“Surely you can’t drive the cattle alone?” Moira frowned. She didn’t know much about cattle drives, but she didn’t figure he could accomplish the task single-handedly. “What will you do now?”
“Go back into town. Start over.” He shook his head in disgust. “I’ll figure it out. I always do.” John cracked a slender branch over his bent knee. “I guess I’ll find a short crew. It’s seventy-five miles to Fort Preble, and double that to Cimarron Springs. That’s ten days with good weather. Only ten more days.” He grunted.
“Where’d you start from?”
“Paris.”
Moira bit off a laugh. “Paris? What’s wrong with American cows?”
“Paris, Texas.” A half grin slid across his face. “My family owns a cattle ranch there.”
Her cheeks heated. She was obviously too exhausted for witty banter. “Are you driving the cattle to Cimarron Springs to sell?”
“Nope.” The cowboy paused for a long moment and Moira let the silence hang between them. Finally he replied, “Starting over,” he spoke so quietly she almost didn’t hear him. “It’s a small herd, but it’ll grow. Times are changing. The big cattle drives are drying up. In ten years’ time, you will hardly see a one.”
Moira knew a lot about starting over. A man with roots and family shouldn’t feel the need. “What about your kin?”
He stared at her as though she’d grown a second head. “It’s a long story.”
Moira nodded her understanding. “They treated you unkindly.”
“Not, uh, not really. Not mean exactly.”
“It must be really dreadful. I didn’t mean to pry.”
“It wasn’t really bad, we just, uh, we just didn’t get along, that’s all. There’s no deep dark secret.” The cowboy plucked another handful of kindling from a pile at his elbow and tossed sticks onto the crackling flames. “What about you? Where’s your family?”
Thrown off guard by the abrupt turn of the tables, Moira considered her answer carefully. She didn’t share details about her past with strangers. She didn’t want pity or judgment.
Yet something in the night air and the cowboy’s affable, forth
right eyes compelled her confidence. “I’m searching for my brother. We were separated as teenagers. Last month I received a telegram. Well, part of one. It’s a long story. Anyway, I gathered what information I could and came straight out, hoping he hadn’t gone far. Except I got here too late. He’s already gone.” She recalled the cowboy’s previous comment. “What did you mean earlier? If we were boys, you’d take us on as your crew?”
A chuckle drifted across the campfire. “It was a story my father used to tell. Back in forty-nine you couldn’t find any able-bodied men for work. They’d all been lured away by the gold rush. A local rancher, desperate for hands, hired him and ten other boys. They drove twelve-hundred head of cattle almost four hundred miles. None of them but the rancher and the cook was over the age of fifteen.”
“That’s amazing!”
“Yeah, but I’m not sure how much I believe.” John scoffed. “The story got bigger each time he told it.”
Moira braced her hands behind her and leaned back. For the first time in years, she’d lost her direction. She’d run up against dead ends before. For some inexplicable reason, this time felt different, more final...more devastating.
“Too bad about your brother,” John said. “I have six of ’em and I’m the youngest. Never lost a one though. They were always around. Too much so.”
Moira’s eyes widened. “What a blessing, having all that family.”
The cowboy kept his eyes heavenward. “I don’t know if I’d put it that way.”
She followed his gaze, astonished by the sheer number of stars blanketing the night sky. She couldn’t recall the last time she’d stared at the moon. If she was out after dark, she kept her defenses up, watching for strangers and pickpockets, not staring at the twinkling stars. “What about your parents?”
“Both dead. My pa died first and I guess my ma couldn’t imagine living without him. She died a short while later.”
The Cattleman Meets His Match Page 5