The Accidental Guardian

by Mary Connealy

  Trace found no one who’d seen a small herd of mixed animals, including a pair of Holstein oxen. A big black-and-white team like that ought to be mighty noticeable. And the big Belgian draft horse—gray with a black mane and tail—was an unusual animal. Neither the Holsteins nor the Belgian horse had been killed during the massacre. They were out here somewhere. And if anyone saw those animals, they’d remember.

  Trace had studied the tracks enough he knew just which ones belonged to the Belgian and which ones the Holsteins. The other animals were less distinctive, but he’d recognize them too probably.

  Yet no one admitted to seeing them. A few folks Trace questioned had a sharp look about them, enough to make Trace wonder if they’d spoken the truth. A man in the West who bought stolen stock would be quiet about it. And to a knowing western man, this group of critters would have the look of a stolen herd—right down to the altered brands, which many a man would note instantly.

  He couldn’t help but be wary about his questions, thinking of what Deb had said about his sitting right next to a killer and letting the man know he was being pursued. It was madness, but he wished now she was with him. He’d have the courage to ask questions a bit more insistently if he could be sure none of the men nearby were the killers he hunted.

  Trace stopped in five settlements along the way without gathering even a snippet of information. Of course, three of these so-called settlements were little more than a general store. One was a single house standing alongside the trail, offering weary travelers a place to sit a spell, eat a meal cooked by someone else, even sleep on a straw-tick mattress.

  Calling these places “settlements” was a long stretch of the word, but Trace stopped in all of them regardless.

  He put in a full day, pushing hard but, he hoped, not so hard he missed any useful information. Finally he rode for the ranch. A long day wasted. He itched to ride on, even reined in his horse and hesitated, not sure if he was making the right decision to go all the way back home. He’d be two or three days on the trail if he rode the rest of the way to the north shore of Tahoe, rounded it, rode through Carson City, and then back home. He needed to visit all those places, and soon. At last, though, he decided to ride for his High Sierra Ranch.

  Was he doing the right thing? Should he stand as guardian over the trail west, because he meant to see that no more harm came to wagon trains. But it was too early to stand watch over the trail since no more wagon trains were passing through.

  No, he’d best get home, which was to the far south shore of Tahoe, and then ride up the east side of the lake tomorrow. This time he’d ride as far as he needed to, even if it meant he had to be gone overnight.

  And he hated that. His home, with the fine meals, the fresh laundry, and now a new cabin for the women and children, with another one in the process of being built for the men, had never been a more welcoming place.

  As he rode toward home, he let Black stretch out in a ground-eating gallop and pondered the wisdom of having an eyewitness at hand the next time he went hunting. If it were anyone but a fragile woman, he knew he wouldn’t hesitate. But it went against all he considered right. At the same time his common sense said it made no sense to leave her behind.

  He had to decide before he got back.

  “He’s back,” Gwen whispered from where she was peeking out the little hole in the front shutters—the little slit worked as a peephole and a gun sight—without swinging the shutters wide and letting in the cold. The shutters were tight; the whole cabin was well built, warm, and had a safe, almost fortress-like quality to it.

  Deb’s heart sped up, and her breath caught a bit. He was much earlier than she’d expected. She steadied herself and whispered back, “Get away from that window and help me get a meal on. We finally have enough space we can all sit in a chair.”

  “Enough space and enough chairs.” Gwen hooked the peephole closed and came back, grinning. “I can’t believe the men built a cabin for us and enough furniture for us all to sit on, and a table to sit at.”

  They could have a meal together and it’d be all three men, because Utah and Adam had worked through supper on the bunkhouse.

  Shaking her head, Deb forced her thoughts away from the window. “It makes me think of Pa and how he was always so busy, too busy to take care of us or Ma or our house. He couldn’t even find time to repair a wobbly step or a broken railing. And yet these men built a whole cabin in a few days.”

  As she talked, Deb sliced a tender venison roast. Adam had brought in a deer and butchered it right after the noon meal. He left most of it hanging to freeze but brought in a good-sized roast, almost apologetically, wondering if they’d like to cook it for supper. Like maybe he was ruining some plan already made.

  “I’ve spent too much time believing all men are like Pa, just because he was the only one I was really around in a personal way. The only one who was supposed to take care of his family that I knew. But men can work hard and be depended on to keep their word and think to the comfort of others.”

  Gwen stirred the roast drippings into a thick gravy, while Deb set the platter of sliced roast to the back of the fire to keep warm and lifted the pot of boiling potatoes off its hook to mash. The whole cabin was warm and secure.

  She felt safe, Deb realized. Yes, even with those evil men running loose. And then she realized the feeling had sprung up when Trace had returned. Until now, Trace hadn’t been safe. Here she’d stood with plentiful food in warmth and safety, but with a heart aching to think of him on that cold trail. And now he was home and, at least for tonight, she felt safe.

  Gwen set a smaller pan near Deb. “Pour the potato water into this. I need it to thin the gravy.”

  Adam had come in today excited because he’d found an old apple tree with slightly withered apples. It was far past the proper harvest time, but still, he’d brought in a bushel of them. They were indeed sad old apples, not in good enough shape to store. But carefully peeled, they cooked up into two bubbling apple pies baking at the back of the new, bigger fireplace. They’d have to cook the apples up fast before they spoiled. Utah gave them some advice about using honey rather than sugar—Trace had a good supply of it. Deb realized they didn’t need to constantly use Trace’s flour and sugar for a delicious apple dessert, although they’d made crusts today.

  The whole place smelled of savory and sweet food and newly sawn wood. And Deb was almost embarrassed to realize just how much she wanted to impress Trace.

  They kept busy, with Deb listening for the sound of the men coming in to eat—and one particular set of feet.

  When at last she heard boots, she waited, silly of her, until they came in and shed their coats. Then once they were watching, she fetched the apple pies out of the fireplace. She carried them to the table and managed a quick inspection of Trace. He was just fine. The men gave her a very gratifying gasp of excitement. Compliments flowed.

  Deb couldn’t help but smile as she set the pies down. This was much more fun than writing for a newspaper.

  “And today,” she said and swept a hand at the chairs, “we have enough places at the table so you can each have a seat. All of us can eat together.”

  The children were long asleep, but there was a chair for Maddie Sue if she’d use it. Ronnie was still going to be on someone’s lap for a while.

  Utah was the first to slide into a chair. “I made the table and chairs just for this purpose, Miss Deb.”

  “We appreciate this house and the furniture so much. We pray for God’s blessing on you many times a day. And the food you’re so kind about is here because you all provide it so we can cook a good meal.” Deb and Gwen hurried to set the food on the table. The men were always starving by the time they came in to eat, and tonight, being late, they were more so than usual. Deb and Gwen were good and hungry, too.

  “You used my apples,” Adam said. “Sure glad I found that tree. Trace, next year we need to go back earlier and pick the whole thing clean.”

  “I didn’t
even know there was an apple tree near here. After all these years I haven’t explored all this land yet.”

  “And you cooked this venison tender as I’ve ever tasted.” Adam took a big bite and chewed for a while before he went on. “I might’ve shot it, but you ladies turned it into something special. You are fine cooks.”

  The meal was a cheerful one. Trace told about his futile search but with firm determination that he would search until he found the men he sought. Deb thought he gave her a considering look that made her wonder what he was thinking.

  Utah and Adam talked about building and discussed what else they needed to add to the bunkhouse.

  “I’m mighty glad you’re putting up that bunkhouse,” Trace said. “But if Deb, Gwen, and the youngsters leave, I’m not going to want to live in this house by myself. I’ve had enough of being alone.”

  Utah laughed. Adam, who sat next to Trace, slapped him on the back.

  “If?” Deb repeated.

  All the men fell silent and chewed as if that was the reason for the silence, even though two of them stuffed food into their mouths after Deb had spoken.

  “I mean . . . when,” Trace said quietly. “I reckon it’s just been so nice to have you here, I can’t help but wish you’d . . . you’d stay.”

  The other men nodded, still chewing.

  Deb didn’t know how to respond. Of course they were leaving. Even though these men had just built her a house, the nicest thing a man had ever done for her. She hadn’t known men like these existed, and here were three of them.

  She finished her meal quickly and dished up the pie, still mulling over the right thing to say, especially since being wanted, and yes, needed, was a fine feeling.

  When the meal was done, Deb asked Trace, “I know you’ve had a long hard day, but would you mind going for a short walk?”

  The other men rose from the table. Wolf was sleeping in front of the door, and he jumped up and stood aside. Deb thought Wolf was guarding them, but Trace said the dog liked the cold and had picked that spot because a winter breeze tended to slip under the door.

  Utah said, “I’m gonna get a few more licks in on the new cabin. It’s late, and the sun is gone, but we are moving faster. I reckon it’s due to practice. I think we can get the walls up past the window level if we work awhile tonight. Who knows, but at this rate, if the weather holds we might get a new barn up, as well.”

  He led Adam outside so fast it looked like they were running away.

  Trace sat there looking trapped. “Uh . . . a walk would be a good idea. You and me. Us.” He cleared his throat, and his eyes shifted to Gwen. “But maybe we should stay and help clean the supper dishes?”

  Gwen smiled. “The youngsters are asleep. I can tidy up in peace. You two go on.”

  Trace rose from the table, fetched his hat and coat. He waited while Deb found her bonnet and her own coat, and they walked outside together, Wolf on their heels.

  The air was cold but not bitterly so.

  Trace said, “Let’s take the trail behind the barn. If it gets too cold, we’ve got the fire lit in the old cabin—we can go in there to have our talk.”

  “Let’s walk at least for a while.” Deb reached down and patted Wolf on the head. “Is this really a wolf or a dog?”

  CHAPTER

  16

  Well, Trace would surely prefer talking about his dog to whatever else Deb had on her mind.

  “His mama was a dog. No doubt about it. I—” he broke off. Why in tarnation had he thought this was a good idea? “I k-killed her.”

  Deb’s head whipped around. “I suppose she was dangerous.”

  He could tell she didn’t mean it. She’d just decided he was a low-down, mother-killing sidewinder. It was nice of her to pretend she wasn’t horrified.

  “It was late in the spring, winter still hard upon me, and I found a pack of six wolves pulling down a wild mustang mare. She was standing in front of a spring colt that was maybe a couple months old, not a newborn thing. The mare was fighting for her baby’s life, but she was losing. She looked like an old one, tough but at the end of her years. At least I like to hope so.”

  They walked past the barn. The trail here led all the way to Dismal, but they sure enough weren’t going that far.

  “I jumped into the fight with a pistol and a rifle.” Trace was silent a moment, remembering the terrible sight.

  Deb nodded. “And you saved the mare?”

  “Nope. Each of my guns was a one-shot. I managed to finish four of the wolves, because twice I was able to put a bullet through one and it passed through and killed the wolf behind it. I had my knife in hand, ready to wade in and fight the last two, but they ran off yelping. The mare was bleeding bad from her throat. She was barely on her feet. She turned, saw me, and tried to charge, still fighting for her baby. But she was used up, and I got far enough away she didn’t have the strength to catch me. She circled back to her baby, and just as she reached him, she stumbled to her knees and then rolled to her side. She just lay there, breathing hard. I reloaded my guns, thinking of the wolves and wondering if I oughta put the horse out of its misery. I hated the idea of shooting the old girl. Before I’d worked up the nerve to do what I knew was the right thing, she died. Her poor baby just lay down beside her, shivering, as if it had no plans to go anywhere.”

  Deb’s hand reached for Trace’s arm. “That’s so sad.”

  Fine snow drifted down on their heads. The wind was quiet tonight, and Trace heard an owl hoot in the woods that grew out of the mountain that rose up on the west side of the trail to Dismal.

  “I saw that colt planning to stay put, probably until more wolves came, maybe until it just starved to death. I pulled a lasso off my waist and roped him. I didn’t try to move him or lead him anywhere. I just secured him to a tree. Then a glint of light from one of the wolves drew my eye. I realized as I looked at her that she was no wolf. Some wolves can be black, but she had a white stripe down the middle of her face and the glint of light was an old collar. She was someone’s dog, gone back to being a wild critter. I was curious so I went to look closer at the collar, and when I did, I realized she was a nursing mother. She had pups somewhere. Pups I’d just consigned to a slow death from starvation.”

  Her hand tightened on his arm. She was trying to comfort him. He was supposed to be a tough man, but he’d been touched so little for so long that he couldn’t help but enjoy it. Then he thought of how she’d react if he told her of the three years he’d been The Guardian of that trail, how he’d killed and done it so well that after a couple of years the outlaws—those who were still alive—went on their way out of fear. But the killing had stained his soul to the point that when he looked down on people in that first wagon train he’d guarded—the only people he’d seen for a year, people whose lives he’d just saved—he hadn’t gone down to talk to them. He’d done his work from the hilltop, then kept away from the wagon train and the decent folks riding in it. And because he’d kept to himself, he’d become a mystery, a ghost, a legend. He’d become The Guardian, when all he really was, was a half-rabid fool driven by vengeance and hate.

  “The strangeness of me saving a baby who’d just lost its mother, by killing another mother and leaving another baby to die, was a weight on me that I didn’t want to bear. So I started back tracking the wolves. I led the foal along. That little colt didn’t like leaving its mama, but he was too little to resist and before long he’d started following willingly. He was old enough to graze on winter grass and drink from a stream. I was afraid the colt was too young to survive without its mother’s milk.

  “I’d already caught my first few cows and managed to gentle three of them to be milkers, so there was cow’s milk once I got Black home. I was relieved when he ate and seemed to befriend me. I was three days hunting when finally I found the den. In it was one surly little pup that looked half-starved, his legs weak and wobbly. He still wanted to chew me up when he saw me. But he was still just a baby, so I handled him.”
Trace nodded toward Wolf. “I wrapped him up in the blanket from my bedroll to keep him from biting me, and we set out for home.”

  Deb smiled. “So Wolf is that pup, and the horse you ride is the colt?”

  “Yep. And Wolf and I and Black lived alone out here for another two years.” Trace thought of it and how much more bearable the loneliness had been with his two new companions with him. God had truly been looking out for him, because he wasn’t sure he’d’ve been able to hold on to his senses if he’d been completely alone all that time. “It was two years before the colt was tall enough to ride. Heaven knows he ain’t well trained because I knew nothing of properly training a horse. But these two and me got to be mighty good friends.”

  He led her along, her hand settled into the crook of his elbow, the moon peeking between fast-moving clouds. A gap in the mountain ahead was his destination. He turned off the trail and led her to a gate built of lodgepole pine that closed the gap in the canyon.

  “My herd is in there.” He pointed through the heavy gate. “Mostly all longhorns I caught wild in these mountains, though there are a few other breeds too—five years’ worth of young stuff mostly all born on my property. I had near two hundred cows and sold off one hundred of them on the drive. I think I’m finally established enough I can live on the cows I raise, hold a cattle drive every year, and make enough money to support myself and maybe buy a few nicer cattle. Herefords, I reckon. They’re gentler and gain weight faster.”

  Her breath caught. “I can see them. They’re mostly white against the brown grass. With the snow drifted around, I couldn’t tell the cows from the snow at first.”

  “Once the snow covers the ground they almost vanish, even though they’re speckled. But the snow doesn’t get too deep because it’s really protected, so the grass stays uncovered for a long time, and these are mountain-bred cattle that know how to dig for food. I came upon this canyon while I was scouting the first summer, and there was a small herd of longhorns grazing in there.”