Wild Horses, Wild Hearts 2

by Montana West

  “I hadn’t pegged him for being a liar, and I was proven wrong,” he said to Longbow, the black mount huffing as though he were agreeing with his rider’s assessment. “Reckon I shouldn’t be all that surprised about him being dumber that a barrel of bricks, either.”

  He spurred Longbow down the ridge and told his ranch hands that he had to make a quick ride back to the homestead. Before the hands could ask what had happened, John was off like a shot for the McNeal homestead.

  You better not be there when I arrive, Chase McAllister, John thought grimly, one of his hands releasing the reins from its death grip and checking to see that his pistol was still on his hip. Maggie may not have shot you yet, but if I find you causing trouble, then I certainly will.

  CHASE WAS PREPARING to demonstrate one of his more unorthodox show riding tricks when he heard the sound of hooves beating the ground like thunder. He turned and spied the ebony steed of John Baldwin come blazing in from the pasture, the blond-haired rider seated atop the horse looking none too pleased at Chase’s presence.

  This isn’t good, Chase gulped, but he refused to let his unease show. He tipped his hat up and met John Baldwin’s gaze coolly.

  “Mister Baldwin,” he greeted amiably enough.

  “Mister McAllister,” John replied, his voice hard as mountain granite. “I believe I was told that you were no longer welcome here at the McNeal Ranch. Matter of fact, the message I delivered to you yesterday was supposed to make that fact clear as day.”

  Chase felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up in anger at John’s imperious tone, but he forced himself to remain calm and not be goaded into doing something stupid.

  “Mister Baldwin, I respect you more than you know,” Chase began, his voice as even as a steel rail, “and I may not know how Leyla found out about my past, but I’m telling you the truth when I say that you folks don’t know the whole story. All I want is a chance to tell Leyla my side of it.”

  “Is your wife dead?”

  “No, but—“

  “You and your side of the story can go hang for all I care, McAllister,” John spat, one of his hands slowly lowering toward his hip. “The fact remains that you kept the truth from us and you went and broke that poor little girl’s heart as a result. Lord alone knows why Maggie hasn’t got you leaking like a sieve yet, but the longer you stay here the more tempted I’m becoming to do it myself.”

  Despite the deathly seriousness of his tone, Chase thought that John was bluffing. “You wouldn’t—”

  The gun seemed to fly into John’s hand. Before Chase even realized what had happened, John had drawn, cocked, aimed, and fired. Chase could swear he felt the bullet graze the hairs on his scalp as the round flew through his hat, sending it flying into the air.

  The whole world stood silent aside from the echo of the pistol’s booming report. Chase stared at John Baldwin with a look of absolute incredulity. John kept his iron gaze centered on Chase’s skull as his thumb pulled the pistol’s hammer back again.

  “That was your final warning, McAllister,” Baldwin growled. “Leyla McNeal doesn’t want to see you and your being here is just making things harder for her. You can either leave on your horse or in a box. Pick one.”

  Stubborn sonuvabitch, Chase mentally cursed, his hand still feeling the spot where the bullet had passed so perilously close to his head. I’ll go, but I’m not giving up.

  Without another word, he turned Cannonball around in the direction of the gate and rode off, not even bothering to collect his hat. The headpiece lay on the ground where it had unceremoniously landed, two neat holes piercing its otherwise intact condition.

  JOHN RELEASED THE BREATH that he’d been holding as he holstered his gun. I hate it when I have to be a gunman, he thought sadly.

  Still, he’d succeeded in driving Chase McAllister off, and if the boy was smart, he’d stay away for good this time.

  Now, I just have to deal with Maggie and Leyla’s response to what I just did, he groaned, knowing that odds were favorable that he’d be met equally with praise and criticism.

  “I DIDN’T KNOW MISTER Baldwin could draw iron that well,” Abigail stated with a tone of quiet amazement.

  “Neither did I,” Maggie breathed, as though she were still trying to reconcile what she had just seen with the man she was now engaged to.

  Leyla remained silent, her emotions and thoughts still fighting one another over what she ought to do in regards to Chase McAllister.

  He lied to me, one part of her mind stated factually. He lied to me about being a married man and I...I was beginning to believe that I wanted to spend the rest of my life with him and that I loved...

  He’s still married. And I was a fool. A naïve, stupid girl.

  Tears welled up in the corners of her eyes. No. She would not cry. Not for the man who had betrayed her.

  Once more, without even bothering to pardon herself, Leyla turned heel and slumped out of the parlor toward her room. She never wanted to see him again for as long as she lived.

  Chapter VII: Chase Returns Again

  CHEYENNE, WYOMING TERRITORY, August 1885

  It was with a fair degree of reluctance that Chase returned to the train that carried the show that was as much his family as anything. In the time since his departure earlier in the day to see if he could somehow explain himself to Leyla, the other performers and laborers had disembarked their essentials from the train, a small town of tents springing up alongside the engineless cars and the tracks they sat upon.

  After he had cleared the gate that marked the McNeal ranchland, Chase had slowed Cannonball to a slower pace so that he might give his mind a chance to comb through different plans on how he might try to talk to Leyla again, preferably without John Baldwin or Margaret McNeal putting a bullet in him.

  By the time he arrived back at the train, the sun was slowly sinking toward the western horizon, bidding this part of the world farewell for another day. Campfires had sprung up all along the colorful train, the flames casting flickering shadows against the painted cars and humble tents.

  Even before he had reached the car he shared with the other show riders, Chase could already see that they’d been making “productive” use of their newfound free time.

  Bull was currently shirtless and bootless, the southerner clad in his trousers, the braces that held them up, and his hat. Chase could see that he had one of his moonshine jars in hand and it looked as though it was just about depleted.

  A grin fought its way across Chase’s features as he watched his friend dance around the fire the show riders had built as he drunkenly sang some song about the Confederacy’s glory or how it would rise again and overtake the Yankees. The other riders sat around and watched, laughing and tapping their feet in rhythm with Bull’s odd performance.

  Chase hitched Cannonball alongside the other horses near the stock car, a hastily erected hitching post keeping all of the mounts from wandering off. As he drew closer to his show-riding brethren, Phillipe “Philadelphia” Ruiz spotted him first.

  “Oy compadres,” he cheered, “look whose back! It’s our fearless leader himself.”

  A laugh and a cheer greeted Chase, which he waved off as he sat down on one of the small crates that served as seats. Even Bull managed to pull himself momentarily out of his drunken revelry to wander over and welcome his friend back with a slurred greeting.

  “So tell us, boss man,” Phillipe continued, “how did it go with Senorita McNeal? Has she forgiven you yet?”

  Chase turned to look at the Mexican show rider in surprise. He didn’t remember having told any of the other show riders where he was going or what he had planned to do.

  As if reading his thoughts, Phillipe laughed good-naturedly. “You not as slick as you think are, amigo,” he said with a grin, his bright teeth and sparkling eyes standing out in stark contrast to his heavily tanned skin. “We all figure out fast where it is you went. So the Senorita show rider? She forgive you, yes?”

  Chase fel
t the urge to tell Phillipe to mind his own business, but he knew that the rider meant no disrespect. Once more, Chase cursed and praised the fact that he and his show riders were such a closely knit group that there was little that escaped anyone’s notice when it came to problems.

  The brown-haired show rider stretched his legs out before him, his eyes staring into the flames and the chicken that was being roasted on top of it. “Sadly, Phillipe, no, Miss McNeal has not forgiven me. She didn’t even talk to me.”

  Phillipe made a show of shrugging before he handed an unmarked bottle of liquor over to Chase. “Is no problem, boss,” he reassured. “You get your chance soon enough. Just need new idea to use, si?”

  “Si,” Chase replied lamely, taking a pull from the bottle and letting its fiery contents wash down his throat.

  Across the fire, Bull had finished his song and had slumped backwards onto one of the crates, his body forming an arch as his top half spilled over the other side. All of the other show riders went quiet for a few moments until they heard the telltale snoring that Bull made whenever he was passed out drunk. A round of chuckles rose up from the group at the southern rider’s antics.

  With Bull’s performance decidedly over, Phillipe reached behind himself and produced a worn but well cared for six-string guitar. His thick fingers took a moment to make sure it was tuned before he slowly began strumming it, humming along with the tune that his fingers were coaxing so fluidly from the instrument.

  Chase found himself nodding gently along with Phillipe’s humming as the rider continued to play.

  “That’s real pretty, Phillipe,” Chase commented before he took another pull from the bottle. “What’s the song about?”

  Though he stopped humming, Phillipe continued to play the instrument as though he still were. “Is an old song, one my papi taught me back in Mexico,” he replied serenely. “Is a song about a peasant who promises a lady de luna and makes good on his word.”

  A man who promises a lady the moon and delivers, Chase thought idly. I’d give Leyla the moon, and more, if only she’d listen.

  Once more, Chase felt his mind become seized by an idea, one that he wished he’d thought of earlier.

  That’s it! he thought triumphantly. I’ll sing to Leyla and get her to come outside and talk to me. She couldn’t possibly resist a moonlight serenade!

  Convinced that this new idea was the best way to go, Chase fixed his guitar-strumming friend with a hopeful smile. “Say, Phillipe,” he crooned slowly, his confidence returning like a rejuvenating breeze. “Would you mind teaching me the words to that pretty song you’re singing there?”

  THE SKY HAD GIVEN WAY to more darkness and stars by the time Chase had learned enough of the song to confidently sing it to Leyla. Though he would have to sing it without the accompaniment of Phillipe’s skilled guitar playing, he was reasonably sure that he’d be able to carry the tune himself.

  He had remounted Cannonball and was just about to bring his horse onto the main road out of Cheyenne and toward the McNeal Ranch when he spied the last person he wanted to see: John Baldwin.

  There was no mistaking the man’s features, hat, or the ebony horse he rode. Even worse, the ranch boss wasn’t alone as he was accompanied by at least a dozen of the ranch hands he oversaw every day.

  Despite his anger at John for the trick shot he had pulled earlier, Chase couldn’t completely begrudge the man his position. As he had ridden back toward Cheyenne earlier in the day, he came to accept the fact that John had just been protecting Leyla from further heartache. Sure, the way he did so may have been a touch heavy-handed, but Chase knew that he’d have probably done the same were he in John’s boots.

  Still, John’s sudden appearance with what looked like a posse in tow was worrisome. Or at least it would have been, if Chase hadn’t noticed one little curious detail—a blindfold.

  John Baldwin was currently riding his horse blindfolded, the ranch hands leading him along into Cheyenne.

  What in the name of Lincoln’s beard? he wondered. What are those boys up to?

  Curiosity getting the better of him, Chase spurred Cannonball to follow behind the group to see what they were planning.

  HOW DID I LET MYSELF get talked into this?

  For what must have been the hundredth time since he’d left the ranch in the company of his ranch hands while wearing a blindfold, John Baldwin wondered just what kind of mess he was being led into.

  Not long after the ranch hands had returned with the herd, they’d cornered their boss and told him that they had a special surprise planned for him that very night. John had initially planned on remaining at the McNeal Ranch that night to make sure Chase McAllister didn’t come back around, but the ranch hands had been quite insistent.

  When he brought this news to Margaret, his bride surprised him by telling him that she was siding with the ranch hands and he should follow them to whatever it was they had in store for him.

  So, with much trepidation and a gut tying itself into knots, John Baldwin had allowed himself to be blindfolded and led on horseback to some mysterious destination and for what purpose he had yet to discern.

  “Alright boss, here we are,” said Amos Lee, his Virginia twang recognizable through any kind of racket.

  John felt Longbow guided to a stop, and someone helped him off of the horse. He could tell that his feet landed in soft dirt, but that could have put him in any number of places throughout the area. As he felt himself guided further and further, he heard the unmistakable clack that a boot heel made when it impacted on wood. That, combined with the slight rise in elevation that came with stepping up onto something, told him that the boys had brought him somewhere into Cheyenne.

  He was moved forward on the wooden floor for a few more paces before he was stopped. Without warning, the blindfold was pulled from his eyes and a rousing cheer met his ears as he looked around to find himself in the center of Finnegan’s Grand Saloon.

  As his eyes adjusted to the brightness of the lamps inside, John looked up and felt his heart swell with pride as he saw a hastily made banner stretched across the railings on the upper floor that read CONGRATULATIONS BOSS.

  The ranch hands—and Fergus, the wily old devil—were apparently throwing him a celebration in honor of his engagement to Margaret.

  Before he could even say a word, he felt a pair of strong hands grip his shoulders and spin him around before pulling him into a friendly embrace.

  John felt the bushy chops brush his face as the figure pulled back to reveal the beaming face of Fergus Finnegan himself.

  “Congratulations, Johnny-boy!” the old Irishman crowed. “Yer goin’ to be a married man, and the boys, Margaret, and I figured you deserved a night off! There’s no getting out of it now, and that goes for this party as well as the marriage, so don’t even try to run.”

  “Fergus, I—,” John started to try and speak but his words failed him as he looked around. Fergus, the ranch hands, riders from other ranches, a few from the show and a multitude of other people he’d met since he came to Cheyenne were all gathered in the saloon to congratulate him on his engagement.

  Trying to keep the emotions welling up within him contained, John simply turned and looked to all gathered with the biggest smile any of them had ever seen. “Thank you,” he said, just loud enough for everyone gathered to hear him. “From the bottom of my Kentucky heart, thank you.”

  Fergus threw his head back and laughed before leading everyone in singing a round of “For He’s A Jolly Good Fellow.”

  As John looked around once more, he felt a strange sensation rise above the others he had been feeling, one that he didn’t recognize at first. But as he thought it over, he realized that it was a familiar feeling that he hadn’t had the pleasure of experiencing in quite a while.

  It was the feeling that he belonged and that he had once more found a home where he could be happy.

  CHASE COULDN’T BELIEVE his luck.

  He had followed the ranch hands to a sa
loon and had listened as the purpose of their journey had been made clear: they were throwing John Baldwin a party to celebrate his engagement to Margaret McNeal.

  ‘That means the ranch is relatively empty, and I can talk to Leyla without fear of Mr. Baldwin catching me!’ Chase thought excitedly, though he still remembered that if Margaret McNeal caught hold of him, then John Baldwin would likely be the least of his worries.

  Still, with John and the ranch hands in Cheyenne and drinking like it was payday, they were unlikely to return until morning and even then they likely wouldn’t be back up to full steam until the next night. That gave Chase the opening he needed in order to try and make things right with Leyla.

  Throwing caution completely to the wind, Chase spurred Cannonball forward and out of Cheyenne as quickly as he could, intent on reaching the McNeal Ranch and Leyla before the night got much older.

  MCNEAL RANCH LAND, Near Cheyenne, Wyoming Territory, August 1885

  The rest of the afternoon following Chase’s forced departure from the McNeal Ranch had moved slowly for Leyla as she spent it locked up in her room, refusing to let her mother or sister in to see her. She had spent a majority of it curled up in a ball atop her bed, trying to force the memories of her time with Chase from her mind.

  One memory that continued to roll around in her mind was the look of shock on Chase’s face after it had registered in his mind that John had shot the hat clean off of his head. She wasn’t sure what to feel about the display of force from John—though she was given to chalk it up to his having spent time with her sister—but she did feel a prick of worry in her heart after she herself had realized what had happened.

  I wonder if this is how Margaret felt after John left? she wondered, hoping that her sister hadn’t experienced even a fraction of what she was feeling now. Whatever it was she was feeling, Leyla decided that she wouldn’t wish it on anybody on earth, not even Chase McAllister.