Claiming Mariah

by Pam Hillman

  “Slade said he wasn’t going to make him work hard. Just enough so he’d be proud of himself and feel he’d earned his keep.”

  Her grandmother nodded. “That’s as it should be.” Her wise old eyes twinkled. “I seem to remember a girl about that age picking blackberries for two weeks to sell to the mercantile so she could save up for a doll.”

  “I did, didn’t I?”

  “Yes, you did. And it taught you the value of hard work and just plain doing something for yourself.”

  Mariah glanced out over the yard. “Grandma?”

  “Hmm?”

  “I know you and Grandpa taught Pa the same lessons you taught Amanda and me. And Pa worked hard and never did anybody wrong that I know of.” Mariah picked up a shirt, smoothing out the wrinkles. “Why do you think he cheated Slade’s father when he wasn’t like that at all?”

  Her grandmother dropped her darning in her lap and sighed. “I’ve wondered that very thing many a night since Seth told us what he had done. And to tell you the truth, I don’t know. I just don’t know.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  “YOU WOULDN’T HAVE believed it if you’d seen it. No way we could bring in that crazy mean bull. Heard he was loco or something.”

  Slade slouched in his saddle, trying to ignore Rio’s incessant chatter. He’d make sure the kid rode fences with someone else from now on. He squinted at the sun hanging low over the horizon. They’d have to head back soon.

  But first he wanted to check over the next rise. He eyed the grove of trees and nudged his horse up the draw. That’d be a good landmark to head for tomorrow.

  Rio prattled on, his voice alternating from low to a squeaky high. Slade bit back a smile. Every so often Rio realized his voice had risen, and he’d lower it a couple of notches.

  “. . . but I wasn’t scared—” His tale stopped midsentence as they topped the rise.

  The remains of a broken fence lay spread out before them. Mangled, twisted wire, posts pulled out of the ground, grass trampled flat, churned-up earth as fresh as a newly plowed field.

  Slade pulled his horse up short. Rio did the same.

  “What in holy smoke happened here?”

  Slade had a sinking feeling he knew but didn’t voice his opinion out loud. He dismounted. “Hold the horses. I’m going to scout around a bit.”

  “Need some help?” Rio stood in his stirrups to get a better view of the situation.

  Slade eased away, studying the ground. “It’s better if we don’t mess up the tracks much till I have a look around.”

  “Okay, boss.”

  Leaving the youngster with the horses, Slade made his way around the perimeter of the broken fence, searching the ground for clues to what had happened. At the fence line, he picked up a strand of wire and pulled it hand over hand to the end. He clenched his jaw and carefully checked another strand. The sharp ends of the wire had been cut, not broken by a bunch of frightened cattle stampeding through.

  He moved on, spotting a clear print of a cow’s hoof here and there. He found what he was searching for when he saw the unmistakable trail of a shod horse, then another, both headed away from the Lazy M. Moving off to the side, he found a stretch of unmarred prints. He hunkered down and studied the tracks, cataloging the shape and size of each. At least three riders, probably more.

  Frowning, he studied the tracks. One horse threw his left hind hoof out when he ran, making the dirt kick out to the side more than usual. He followed the tracks for a short distance. Sure enough, the hitch showed up consistently in almost every stride. The horse could have been tired or injured, but he tucked the information away, hoping it might come in handy someday.

  He straightened, placed both hands on his hips, and gazed northward, trying to figure out who owned the land beyond the fence surrounding the Lazy M. He’d made it his business to learn the names of the ranchers in these parts, but this particular stretch could belong to Riker or Cooper.

  Pushing his hat back, he swiped at his sweat-dampened forehead. Maybe there was a logical explanation for the broken fence, because the last thing he needed was a band of rustlers working the area. He walked back to where Rio waited with the horses.

  “Is it rustlers?” The kid fidgeted, as excited as a banty rooster at a cockfight. “Can I look?”

  Rio’s enthusiasm made Slade chuckle, even under the circumstances. He waved him on. “Sure, go ahead. But be careful. And don’t mess up the tracks.”

  “Sure thing, boss.”

  Slade shook his head as Rio bounded off like an excited puppy, his loose-jointed frame flopping wildly. He let the kid go. Most of the evidence would be gone before the sheriff could check it out anyway, so Rio couldn’t do too much damage even if he tried.

  After Rio examined the site, they mounted up and headed for the barn. Slade waved in the direction the cows had gone. “Who owns the spread north of here?”

  “Frederick Cooper. He bought the Roundup Ranch about the time Miss Mariah’s pa took sick. Old man Crenshaw went bankrupt, and Cooper got the ranch for a song. He came to see Mariah the other day, remember? He’s sweet on her, you know.”

  “Yeah, I know.” Slade’s stomach clenched at the reminder.

  The sweet scent of baking cookies filled the kitchen as Mariah lifted a fresh batch of tea cakes onto a platter to cool.

  She regarded the starburst pattern on top of each one. They were almost too pretty to eat. But Slade and Buck would inhale every one of them tonight, probably before supper if they could get away with it. Land sakes, but those two could put away the food.

  Buck looked like he’d gained a few pounds lately, and she hoped her cooking had something to do with it. His slight muscles grew stronger every day. She’d discovered he liked potato soup, so she’d made a huge pot for tonight and a skillet of corn bread to go with it.

  Slade enjoyed anything, but he favored tea cakes. Her gaze fell on the still-warm cookies. Just when had pleasing Slade, or even Buck, become important to her?

  She sank down onto one of the split-bottom chairs at the table. Slade had every intention of sending her and her grandmother packing as soon as his mother arrived. What did she care if he liked tea cakes or not?

  A heavy weight descended on her. Slade cared about this ranch; even she could see that. He wanted it to prosper, and he worked harder than anybody else to make it happen.

  Could that be why she felt so out of sorts? She hadn’t been able to make the ranch flourish. Everything had been on a downhill slide ever since her father took sick and she had to make all the decisions. Every time Red had come to her with a report, he’d brought bad news of some sort. And it had gotten worse as time wore on and the doctor bills piled up.

  She should’ve used a firmer hand with the men. Let them know who was boss. But she’d been so worried about her father that she’d let Red run the ranch as he saw fit. She’d trusted him to do his part since she’d had all she could do to tend the garden that fed the lot of them, take care of the house and her grandmother, launder everyone’s clothes, and worry about Amanda. She’d thought she couldn’t do much more.

  But as owner, she should have done more, learned more, listened more.

  In hindsight, she realized her grandmother and Cookie had tried to tell her. Her grandmother had never cared for some of the hands Red had hired, and Cookie had made a few remarks as well. But she’d told him to see Red, that he was in charge of the ranch hands. She hadn’t wanted to deal with it. Hadn’t really known how.

  Red seemed like a good sort, eager to please most of the time. It hadn’t occurred to Mariah that he might be shirking his duties. But looking back now, she could see where the ranch foreman and the hands had let things slide. She’d noticed a marked change for the better since Slade had taken over.

  What if Slade had been the foreman when her father took sick? Would things have turned out differently? What if he hadn’t come seeking revenge for her father’s treachery?

  What if . . . ?

  Th
ere she went again, letting her thoughts wander down paths leading to nowhere except heartache. She picked up the tea cakes and carried them to the pie safe.

  Her father had stolen Jack Donovan’s hopes, his dreams. And when she’d written that letter, she’d given those dreams back to his son.

  Nothing—not even wishing—would change that.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  RED RODE WEST looking for Slade, dreading what he had to tell him.

  Mile after mile of scruffy prairie grass stretched before him, beckoning. Not a cloud in the sky, so bright and blue he could almost reach out and touch it. The urge to keep riding hit him so hard his chest hurt and the burning in his gut intensified. He’d be long gone before anyone at the Lazy M realized it, and then it would be several more days before Emmit got word.

  But he couldn’t leave.

  The image of Emmit’s glazed expression when he realized he’d killed Slick haunted Red. For the past week, he had wrestled with his demons, trying to come up with a plan to save his brother, to save himself. Things had gone too far. Surely Emmit would see that now that he had blood on his hands.

  Red spotted two horses loping toward him. Donovan and Rio. He reined in and waited. Rio spurred his mount and raced ahead to stop almost on top of Red. Red fought to hold his horse in check.

  “You’ll never guess what we found.” Words shot from Rio’s mouth, his excitement knowing no bounds. “A whole section of fence pulled down and a bunch of cattle gone. Could be rustlers.”

  Red’s gut twisted in another round of fiery torment, and he wanted to bash something, namely Giff Kerchen’s head. Did the idiot not realize that with Donovan ordering them to ride fences every day, somebody would find the mess he’d left when he moved the cattle? If Emmit hadn’t asked Red to stick close to the ranch, he would’ve taken the cattle the long way around and then made sure the men repaired the fence afterward.

  Maybe the news about Buck was a godsend.

  What would be worse: getting fired for almost killing Donovan’s brother or being hung for rustling?

  Heart pounding, Slade jumped off his horse and headed straight for the bunkhouse.

  Cookie met him at the door.

  “Red said Buck was sick.”

  “Never should have gone off with that Giff Kerchen, I tell ya.” His rheumy eyes held a steely glint.

  “Giff? Where’d they go?” Slade frowned. He’d left Buck mucking stalls this morning.

  Cookie lifted his chin a notch. “You’d better go ask Buck, I reckon. He didn’t want you to know. Wouldn’t even let me tell Mariah.”

  “Thanks, Cookie.” Slade gave the old man a curt nod.

  He hurried into the bunkhouse and made his way to the darkened corner Buck had claimed for his own. His brother lay in his bunk, his thin frame shaking even under a thick layer of blankets. Little Jim sat by his side, a bowl of water and a wet rag in his hand.

  “Buck?”

  His brother shifted, and his voice floated out from beneath the blankets. “I’ll . . . be . . . all right. Just give . . . me . . . a little . . . time.”

  “What happened?”

  “Noth . . . nothing.”

  “I know something happened. Cookie said you went off with Giff.”

  Buck shook his head, started to speak, but a round of coughing cut off his words.

  Slade clenched both fists. “Stay with him, Jim. I’ll be right back.”

  He stepped from the bunkhouse, quickly spotting Giff in a knot of men near the barn. The ranch hand leaned against the corral, and Red sat on a sawed-off log. A sharp bark of laughter rolled across the yard as Rio laughed at something one of the others had said.

  “Giff.”

  “Yes, sir?” Giff answered, his tone anything but deferential.

  “I want to know what you did to my brother today.”

  Giff’s expression hardened. “Me? I didn’t do nothing to that milk-faced boy. He just decided to go and help clean out the water hole. It ain’t my fault the scrawny kid fell into the water.”

  White-hot anger surged through Slade. Getting chilled could bring on another round of pneumonia. And Giff had no excuse: he’d complained often enough that Buck’s coughing spells kept him awake at night. The talk in front of the barn ceased and the men grew still. Cookie came to the door of the cookhouse, wiping his hands on his apron.

  “That’s the way of it, Donovan.” Red stepped between them, hands out as if to ward off blows. “Your brother decided he was tired of lollygagging around here and volunteered to help clean out the water hole.”

  “That’s not the way it happened,” Cookie sputtered, “and you know it.”

  “Aw, shut up, old man. You don’t know nothing.” Red glared at Cookie.

  “I won’t shut up!” Cookie’s voice shook with fury. “You let Giff goad that young feller into feeling guilty over being sick and all. You’ve seen his scars. He’s been through more than either one of you could handle. Why, that mustang nearly stomped—”

  “That’s enough.” Slade held up his hand.

  A tense silence followed Cookie’s outburst. Slade and Red eyed each other. Anger mottled Red’s ruddy complexion. Slade took a deep breath. He’d known it was going to come to this the first day he’d squared off with the Lazy M foreman. Better to sever ties now with one fell swoop.

  “Giff, I was willing to overlook the incident with the eggs, figuring you were just having a little fun with Buck, and that your temper got the best of you when Mariah dumped a basket of eggs on your head.” His gaze included Red. “But in the weeks I’ve been here, neither one of you have shown any interest in doing your jobs. So maybe it’s time y’all just pack up and head on out of here.”

  “Why you—” Giff’s rage cut off in midsentence as he lunged.

  Mariah heard a yell just as she took a second batch of tea cakes out of the oven. She glanced out the kitchen door and saw Giff ram Slade. The two men tumbled backward, rolled once, and sprang to their feet. Then they circled each other, looking like two mountain lions fighting over a fresh kill.

  “Oh, my word.” She lifted her skirts and raced across the barnyard to the ring of spectators standing around the two men. “Stop! Please stop!”

  No one even glanced at her.

  Slade threw a punch that sent Giff reeling backward. Giff recovered and came at Slade again. He swung, his fist grazing Slade’s cheek.

  Mariah pressed both hands to her mouth. Lord, please don’t let anybody pull a gun.

  Slade’s fist slammed into Giff’s stomach, and the other man staggered backward. Slade circled, keeping his eyes on his opponent.

  When Giff’s fist connected solidly with Slade’s cheekbone, Mariah’s stomach roiled as if she’d been hit herself. Slade stumbled, regained his footing, and came at the bigger man like an enraged bull.

  “Hit him, Slade! Hit him hard.” Mariah clamped her hand over her mouth again and cast a horrified glance around the group. Thankfully, they were all cheering the fighters on and hadn’t heard her. She hopped from one foot to the other, moaning with each punch but keeping her hands over her mouth.

  When she thought she couldn’t stand it any longer, Slade rammed his left fist into Giff’s stomach and followed with a hard right-handed uppercut that connected with Giff’s chin.

  Giff stopped dead in his tracks. Eyelids fluttering, he sank to the ground like a stone to the bottom of the creek.

  The sound of Slade’s harsh breathing filled the sudden silence around the barnyard. He staggered to the watering trough and picked up a bucket. He filled it with water, then dumped it on Giff’s head. As the man sputtered and rolled over, Slade turned to Red.

  “Get out,” he said, his low voice brooking no argument. “Both of you.”

  “What about our pay?”

  “You got paid Saturday. That’s enough.”

  Red looked like he would argue, but instead he helped Giff to his feet. Giff gave Slade a hard-eyed glare.

  They moved away and Rio brok
e into a big grin. “Did you see that, Cookie? Mr. Donovan knocked him out cold. Wait till I tell the boys in town about this.”

  Slade splashed water over his face while the men recounted each punch thrown.

  Mariah picked up Slade’s hat from the dust and waited until the men drifted away before she approached him.

  “Come into the kitchen. I’ve got some salve that will help.”

  He glanced at her, one eye already beginning to swell and a cut on his right cheek trickling blood. He shrugged. “I’ll be all right. I’ve had worse.”

  Tentatively she touched his arm. “Please.”

  He stared at her a moment before nodding. “All right. But I need to check on Buck first.”

  “It won’t do your brother any good to see you all beat up like that,” Cookie growled. “Go on and get cleaned up.”

  “He’s right.” She tugged on Slade’s arm. “Come on.”

  Mariah tossed Slade’s hat on the kitchen table and rummaged in the cabinets for the salve. Slade hiked one hip onto the table, boot swaying back and forth. Finally she located the stuff and set it on the table, then poured some clean water into a small bowl and dampened a piece of cloth.

  She moved closer until she stood within inches of him. Trying to ignore the pressure of her full skirt brushing against his legs, she reached out to clean the area around the cut and found his blue gaze watching her steadily. Casting about for something to ease the tension, she asked, “What happened?”

  He shoved one hand through his hair only to have the too-long strands tumble right back onto his forehead.

  “Giff convinced Buck to go clean out the water hole today. Somehow Buck fell in the water.” His jaw tightened. “Or Giff pushed him.”