The Cattleman Meets His Match

by Sherri Shackelford

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Moira murmured. “I guess you’re an orphan, too.”

  “I never thought about it that way.” A wrinkle deepened on his forehead. “Except I’m the youngest, and I sometimes feel like I have six fathers. My reasons for leaving seem small now, after talking with you, but I had to set out on my own. When our folks were alive, they had a way of making sure we all had a voice. Now it’s as if we’re all fighting to be heard, only no one is listening. It got to the point where we’d argue over something just for the sake of a good brawl. I figured if I didn’t leave soon, all that fighting would turn into hate. And hate is a hard thing to come back from. I know my folks wouldn’t have wanted that for us.”

  Moira plucked a handful of prairie grass and held it in her fisted hand. “I wouldn’t know.”

  Her own father had run off the year Tommy had been born. Her mother had once been young and beautiful, but time and illness had stolen the bloom from her cheeks. The more she needed and the less she gave, the less her husband came home at night. Once she’d lost her usefulness, he’d run. He’d run from his wife and his children. His responsibilities. He hadn’t run far enough. He’d been killed in a factory accident three months later.

  Moira had been in charge of herself for as long as she could remember. Her mother had worked herself sick, and Moira had cared for her little brother. When her mother could no longer even care for herself, a woman from the Missouri State Charitable Trust and Foundling Society had arrived.

  Never outlive your usefulness, her mother had said.

  Moira had felt her mother’s death somewhere along the way, although she’d never received proper notice. One day she’d finally accepted that no one was coming for her. The realization had hardened her heart and made her more determined than ever to prove her worth.

  Shortly after the Charitable Trust had found them, she and Tommy had been taken in by the Giffords. Mrs. Gifford had fancied herself a society lady, except Mr. Gifford had never made enough money to keep her in the style she figured she deserved. Moira had initially been humbled, awed by their fine house and brocaded furniture. She’d soon learned it was all superficial luxury.

  From the beginning, the Giffords had treated them like hirelings. To her foster family, she was a servant. Mrs. Gifford took great pride in parading her charity before her friends. The truth was far less charitable. The Giffords had put them to work. The siblings rolled cigars for ten hours a day, sometimes more. Pacing and frowning, Mr. Gifford had timed them with his ever-present pocket watch. More cigars meant more income for the Giffords.

  Making Moira work from sunup to sundown for nothing more than a roof over her head and a castoff dress each spring didn’t place Mrs. Gifford in the annals of sainthood, though she acted as if it did. After Tommy ran away, Moira had marked off the days until her eighteenth birthday and left that morning.

  Mr. and Mrs. Gifford had figured she’d be back in a week, begging for help. She’d never doubted her decision. Tommy hadn’t returned and neither would she.

  The cowboy stretched and yawned. “When did you see Tommy last?”

  “Five years ago. He was fifteen and I was almost seventeen. He ran away. I, uh, I thought he’d come back. I’d given up ever seeing him again until I received the telegram. It was the sign I’d been searching for all along.”

  She’d find him and make things right. She’d apologize for taking the watch, for getting him in trouble. No one had loved her, truly loved her since that fateful day when she’d hidden Mr. Gifford’s infuriating pocket watch behind a tin of crackers in the pantry and let Tommy take the blame.

  She was supposed to take care of him, and she’d failed. She’d failed in the worst way possible. The cowboy dug his heels into the soft earth. “That’s a long time to look for someone.”

  “Not very long when you love the person.”

  “Point taken.”

  “We’ll be a family again.”

  The cowboy resumed his stargazing. “You’re what, twenty-one, twenty-two? He’s almost twenty? That’s a long time apart. People change. Maybe you should think about starting a family of your own.”

  Moira shook her head. “Not until I find Tommy.”

  “Well, he’s probably looking for you, too. I’m sure it’ll all work out.”

  The cowboy’s casual words buoyed her fragile hope. Would her brother accept her? He’d never returned to the Giffords. He must have known it was her fault. She’d have told the truth, except she’d been too much of a coward. By the time she’d screwed up her courage, Tommy was gone. She’d waited for him at the Giffords then stayed on working at the hotel in St. Louis, hoping to catch a glimpse of him.

  If he’d been looking, surely he’d have found her. Yet this past month she’d finally been given proof, courtesy of the Gifford’s maid, that he’d tried to contact her. His concession had to mean something. “Everything will be better when we’re together as a family again.”

  He’d forgive her. If she found him, if she explained, he’d forgive her. Then she could finally be whole again. They could finally be a family again. She’d have a purpose once more.

  John stood and dusted his pant legs. “It’s late. You should get some sleep.” He held out his hand. “You did real well tonight. You tie knots like a trail boss. Those girls are lucky to have you.”

  As she took his proffered hand, her heart stalled beneath his unexpected compliment. “Why are you doing this? Why are you helping us?”

  No one ever did anything without an ulterior motive.

  “Didn’t have much other choice,” he answered easily.

  Moira kept her own counsel. He’d want payment for his help. She only hoped the price wasn’t too steep.

  Either way, she hadn’t the energy to sort out his motives. She’d find Tommy, she’d settle for nothing less. Lord knew she’d pave a street to his doorstep brick by brick with her bare hands if only she knew the way. There was an empty space inside her, and she wouldn’t be whole again until they were family once more. This was merely a detour in her journey. She wouldn’t be distracted by the handsome cowboy and his deceptively kind eyes. Not now. Not ever.

  She’d never open up her heart to the disappointment her mother had faced. She wouldn’t spend her life proving her worth just to be abandoned in the end. Sooner or later everybody left. The first year at the hotel she’d tried to make friends, but no one ever stayed long. One by one all the people who’d been important to her were plucked away. She’d learned her lesson well—she was better off alone.

  Moira glanced around and realized John was heading for the horses and not the tents. “Where are you going?”

  “Keeping watch. Checking the remuda.”

  Champion scrambled upright. John pointed a finger. “Stay. Keep watch over the camp.”

  The animal immediately lay down and rested its head on its paws.

  Moira followed the cowboy’s shuffling steps and her earlier animosity softened. His shoulders had slumped since she’d first seen him striding through the darkened alley. He must be exhausted. If he didn’t find a crew tomorrow, what then?

  Thoughtful, she gazed into the darkness. Those cattle sure didn’t care if she was a boy or a girl. Why should anyone else? If a dozen boys could drive twelve hundred head of cattle, couldn’t a few girls drive this bunch? If they were useful, maybe that would be enough payment.

  Moira shook off the crazy thought. She’d find another way.

  Alone.

  The less time she spent in the company of John Elder, the better. She’d only known him a short while and already her resolve was weakening. His shoulders were strong, and it had been a long time since she’d had someone to lean on. She was exhausted, that was all. After a good night’s rest she’d be stronger. And after tomorrow, she’d never see him again. She was used to being on her own. Life was easier that way
. Lonelier, perhaps, but she’d rather be solitary than grow fond of someone who would only be in her life a short time.

  * * *

  As the lavender fingers of dawn branched out from the east, John braced his hands against the saddle horn and locked his elbows. A faint haze on the horizon showed the first signs of the morning sun. He’d kept watch all night, dozing off and on, and was so exhausted he could hardly think straight.

  Outside of Texas, the terrain had leveled. John had never considered himself a sentimental man, yet the changing landscape left him melancholy.

  His longhorns would thrive on the rich buffalo grass of the plains. Cities like Wichita were growing while Dodge City faded. Kansas was shutting out the Texas cattle, but folks still needed to be fed. If an army marched on its stomach, then nations flourished on a full belly.

  Pops poured a cup of coffee and John reached for the steaming brew. Pops had been around the Elder family for as long as John could remember. He should be retired now, kicking back and relaxing. Instead he’d chosen a grueling cattle drive. Some men just weren’t made for retirement.

  John’s horse sidestepped and he carefully balanced the hot liquid over the ground.

  The older man poured another. “What’s the story on them girls?”

  “Hard to say,” John replied. “Looks like the deputy sheriff was rounding them up. Searching for pickpockets. Put ’em up in a sportin’ house while he sorted out the details.”

  Pops scoffed. “Why’d he take them to a sportin’ house?”

  John sipped his coffee and winced against the heat. “Didn’t ask.”

  “What do you think?”

  “I think something doesn’t feel right.”

  They’d dropped out of the sky onto his head. Literally. Then Moira had inadvertently knocked the sheriff’s deputy senseless. It’s fitting you’ll die in fire, the deputy had said. That threat felt personal. Had they encountered each other before? Had Moira had a previous brush with the law?

  The girls were still sleeping which gave John time for thinking. Too much time. The law in town was rounding up pickpockets. And not just any pickpockets. They were specifically looking for young girls.

  While Moira was definitely a woman, she could be mistaken for an adolescent with her girlish skirts, petite stature and fresh-faced smile. The gang he’d encountered in Buffalo Gap had worked as a team. One member distracted a fellow while another lifted his belongings.

  Was one of his unlikely charges in possession of Mr. Grey’s watch? John’s thoughts immediately lit on Darcy. Of all the girls, she had the hardest edge. While John was tempted to speculate, he shook off any supposition. All he could do was place them in someone else’s safekeeping.

  Pops stood and stretched his fisted hands toward the sky. “What are you going to do?”

  “I’ll go into town this morning. See if I can get the lay of the land while I’m posting a notice for a new crew.” See if I’m a wanted man. John didn’t suppose assaulting the sheriff’s deputy was a crime without punishment.

  In the crisp light of dawn he couldn’t easily dismiss the way Moira had looked at him last evening. As though he’d already disappointed her. Ruth Ann had looked at him that way once, when he’d playfully asked her to marry him and she’d declared him unfit. At least he’d given Ruth Ann a reason. What reason did Moira have for doubting him? Though her opinion shouldn’t matter, it did. He didn’t like her looking at him as if she’d sized him up and was waiting for him to show weakness. To fail.

  John shook his head. It was better this way. He didn’t need the distraction. And Miss Moira O’Mara was definitely a distraction.

  “I’ll watch the girls while you’re gone,” Pops spoke, interrupting John’s reverie.

  “Suit yourself.” His head pounding, John gulped the last of his cooled coffee. “Be sure and hide the valuables.”

  There was a good chance he’d brought a gaggle of half-size pickpockets into camp. They couldn’t get away with much, but better safe than sorry.

  Pops didn’t appear concerned at the prospect. “I’ll take my chances.”

  “What would the boys do?” John asked, knowing Pops would understand the question better than anyone.

  The older man considered his answer as he hooked the handle of his Dutch oven with an iron rod and hoisted it over the flames. “I don’t suppose it matters what your brothers would do. They’re not here, are they?”

  “The one time I wouldn’t mind a little help, and they’re not around.”

  Pops grinned. “Never say God doesn’t have a sense of humor.”

  John stifled a sigh. If Moira was guilty of a crime, then she’d have to answer to a higher power than him. No matter what the outcome, he needed some distance between them. He had an uneasy sensation the feelings stirring in his chest wouldn’t change based on the outcome of her guilt or innocence. According to Ruth Ann, he wasn’t the sort of man people pinned their hopes on.

  John’s horse sidestepped and he glanced up. Two riders appeared on the horizon. Judging by the dirt clods they kicked up in their wake, the men were coming fast. The one on the right was lanky and tall. Familiar. John groaned. Even from a distance he recognized the deputy sheriff.

  He tightened his fist around the reins. “Pops, why don’t you round up the girls. We’ve got trouble.”

  “What kind of trouble?”

  John nodded toward the approaching riders. “The law has caught up with us. Looks like I don’t need to go into town after all.”

  Pops threw up his arms. “What in the name of Sam Hill happened last night?” He eyed John, his speculation manifest in his watery gray eyes. “I’m guessing there’s more to the story than what you told me.”

  “I might have assaulted the sheriff’s deputy.”

  “Might have or did?”

  “I hit him.” John shot his cook a quelling glance. He’d hoped to avoid admitting that particular transgression. “It’s a long story and I don’t have time to tell it right now. I’ll meet our company. Let the girls know we have visitors.”

  Pops shook his head. “I’ll round ’em up. But you’re on your own after that. I’ve got a stew to finish.”

  John glanced behind him at the quiet tent. One thing was for certain, he sure hoped Miss O’Mara unraveled knots as well as she tied them.

  Chapter Four

  Moira stumbled into the early morning light and held the tent flap aside for the other girls. She stretched and yawned, then pressed her hands into the small of her back and arched.

  Tony rubbed her eyes, blinked and blinked again.

  Following her gaze, Moira bolted upright. The kidnapper and another man stood before them.

  “Well, well, well. If it isn’t the orphan bunch,” the kidnapper said with a smirk.

  “Stay away from us or I’ll fetch the sheriff,” Moira said.

  The second man rubbed the back of his neck. “That would be me.”

  Nausea rose in the back of her throat. Both men wore stars on their lapels. Though one was tarnished and dull; the other twinkled in the morning sunlight.

  “Some of you have met already,” the second man continued. “Perhaps more formal introductions are in order. My name is Sheriff Taylor. This is my deputy, Wendell Ervin.”

  Moira glared at the deputy sheriff. One shirttail hung loose from his sagging, brown trousers while greasy stains from a long-forgotten meal interrupted the black-and-gray satin stripes lining his vest like jailhouse bars. He’d removed his hat revealing a crown of thinning, sandy-colored hair pressed into place by layers of dirt and grime. A goose-egg bruise stood out between his shaggy eyebrows and purple half moons flared from the inside corners of his eyes.

  He leered at her, showing a yellowed nightmare of a gap-toothed smile. Suppressing a delicate shudder, Moira leaned aw
ay. His close proximity revealed the bloodshot whites of his faded blue eyes. He pointed a crooked finger at her. “You’ll be spending the rest of your life in jail.”

  She might have felt a modicum of satisfaction from his self-inflicted injury if she wasn’t terrified of his threat. Moira figured the situation could only degrade from there.

  While the deputy swaggered and postulated, it was clear he wasn’t in charge. The man who’d introduced himself as the sheriff managed to overshadow his deputy with nothing more than a dismissive glare. Unlike Wendell, there wasn’t a speck of dirt marring the sheriff’s impeccable black suit. A crisp white shirt with a starched collar glowed between the dark folds of his lapels and his silver star sparkled.

  Moira had a sudden absurd image of the sheriff blowing a hot breath against the metal and polishing the tin against his tidy black sleeve before riding into camp.

  Her four charges stomped and huffed, rubbing their hands against chill shoulders. Despite the deputy’s blustering threat, their expressions were dull and uncomprehending. The girls blinked and yawned, wrinkled and blurry-eyed from sleep.

  The sheriff smoothed his neat, dark coat into place and focused his attention on John. “Your name?”

  “John Elder,” the cowboy replied, his voice a low growl.

  He kept his face averted from Moira. Come to think of it, John hadn’t met her eyes once this morning. As though sensing her perusal, he turned, revealing his stark profile and the hard set of his jaw. There was nothing reassuring about his demeanor and her chest throbbed with something weighty and ragged.

  The sheriff dusted his hat brim. “I knew an Elder once. From Texas. You a relation?”

  “Probably.”

  Her kidnapper stepped forward and hitched his thumbs into his belt loops. Moira took an involuntary step back. He might be a deputy sheriff, but he wasn’t getting any closer. He took another step and she matched her withdrawal. They repeated the odd dance twice more. John and the sheriff watched the display with curious detachment, waiting to see how the impasse would play out. Moira glared at their lack of interference. She’d back her way right into Kansas at this rate, but she didn’t care.