Cattle Baron's Daughter

by S. Dionne Moore

  Cold blue eyes snapped to her face then skimmed the length of her. Her skin crawled. “I’m Skinny Bonnet.”

  “I wanted to see my father.” Her flat words were meant to send a warning.

  Skinny fingered the edges of his vest. “I’ll get him for you. Went down south of the property.”

  Without another word, he left. Roper remained where he was. “He’s the foreman. Has a way of nettling people.”

  “You speak from experience?”

  Roper shrugged. “Not everyone likes him. I’d better git before he starts in on me.”

  Within seconds Roper was back, her trunk across his back. Heat flared in her cheeks when she recalled its weight and saw the frailty of the man who labored to carry it. “In your room, miss?”

  “Yes, please, and thank you so much.”

  “No problem.”

  A weight settled on Olivia’s shoulders as Roper left and the quietness of the empty house surrounded her. The sharpness of her mother’s death penetrated deeper than it had in the years since she’d left. No wonder her father and aunt had decided it best for her to leave Wyoming. She stood at the kitchen table, the same one she remembered from her childhood, and traced the grain of the boards, worn by time and the presence of many hands on its surface. Though neat, the kitchen seemed hollow. Lifeless. And Olivia felt the pang of loneliness so familiar to her at boarding school. Even in the midst of her circle of friends, she’d felt alone when the girls talked of their families and friends, bragging about their privileges and current gossip.

  Olivia touched the seat where her mother had presided over the table and felt the coldness of the wood. Sorrow reached down deep into that part of her heart that acknowledged her mother’s absence and yanked hard. She would make sure to find her mother’s grave, near a shining pond and a tree with arching limbs. It was all she remembered.

  With effort she turned her thoughts to taking charge of tasks her mother would have done. Cooking seemed the most obvious. Crossing to the pantry, she assessed the staples along the shelves. Bread would be the perfect beginning, so she lifted down a half-empty sack of flour. Upon straightening, she noticed her mother’s apron hanging from a nail beside the shelves. For as long as she could remember, it had been the place Lillian Sattler hung her apron every night after supper. Olivia let the flour sack slide from her grasp and reached a trembling hand to the hard evidence of a presence long gone.

  Her eyes closed as she held the delicate white apron against her cheek. Its various smears and smudges and the smell of home and family rolled Olivia back ten years to those times she stood on a stool and watched her mother knead bread or make pies. Even those times her mother shared her favorite peppermints. A rare treat indeed! She tried to bring her mother’s face into tighter focus. A face much like her own. She could see her mother’s smile as she laughed at one of Olivia’s young inanities and smell the fresh peppermint that clung to her when Lily Sattler knelt to hug her close.

  Enmeshed in her thoughts, Olivia didn’t hear the creak of the front door or the soft steps that drew nearer. A hand clamped her shoulder as her name was spoken. She jerked and turned, hand at her throat. Her father’s face greeted her, and she sank into his outstretched arms. Tears burned her eyes and demanded release.

  “Welcome home, daughter.”

  She had no words. Between the surprise of his approach and the reality of his presence after so many years, she could think of nothing to say.

  He held her away from him, his smile wide but stiff. As if he’d had little reason to smile for a long time. Craggy wrinkles appeared around his eyes and mouth. His face seemed leaner, darker, more leathery than she remembered. His hair was grayer and thinner.

  “You stole my breath,” he said. “I thought I was watching your mother.”

  “Oh Daddy!” She nestled close to him again, releasing the tears that filled her eyes and blurred his image. With her mother’s apron in her hands, it was almost like the three of them together again.

  “Imagine my surprise to find a beautiful young woman in place of the little girl I sent off so long ago.”

  “You could have visited. Or sent for me. Or. . .” Olivia bit her lip and her father pulled back, his hands holding her shoulders.

  “And I’m sorry for that. Phoebe told me to visit. I meant to. . . . It just never seemed the right time to leave.

  For ten years? She turned from him, hiding the sheen of tears burning for release. “I’m going to make bread and a cake. Butter cake, your favorite.”

  His gaze fell to the apron in her hands. “Just like your mother.”

  She heard the wobble in his voice and turned in time to see his hand wipe at his cheek. She went to him and hugged him hard. He propped his chin on the top of her head. He must feel as she did. Like her mother’s ghost had somehow entered the kitchen and orchestrated the tugs of grief from those she loved.

  At last her father released her. “I won’t have you cooking tonight. Marty will do those honors, butter cake and all. We’ll eat that cake up, and you can retire for the evening. Stages aren’t big on comfort, and you must be exhausted.”

  He crossed to the front door, flashed a grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes, and was gone. Probably off to raise the alarm to his men that a lady would be present at chuck. Funny how she’d forgotten that her father was not a man of many words. Where she had expected a flowing conversation of news as they played catch-up, she’d received much less.

  Her aunt Fawn had tried to warn her about being the only woman among men. With a sigh, Olivia hooked the apron back on the nail and realized the room had grown dim. Outside the large window, clouds were rolling in. She raised the chimney on a lantern in the center of the table and lit the wick. A welcome splash of light pushed the shadows back as a draft of cold air swept around her ankles.

  three

  “I’m going into town tomorrow, Ryan.” Josephine Laxalt stood a full head shorter than her son, but Ryan knew what a determined woman looked like when he saw the tilt of his mother’s chin and the gleam in her eyes. “You won’t change my mind.”

  “Father would want me to care for you.”

  “I, who have cared for others all my life”—Josephine’s finger wagged—“need no one to care for me. I will work in town.”

  Ryan hunkered down in his space at the table and wished he hadn’t eaten in town so he could do his mother’s greens and ham the honor it deserved. He knew she measured how much he ate—had done so ever since he was a boy. Something about making sure he grew straight and strong. He smiled at the memory of her frowning when he’d reach for a sweet before his plate was clear of the last crumb.

  “There are things I can do on the ranch to help you,” she said, “but it was Martin’s dream, not mine. I want to be with people again, son. You take the ranch. Fulfill your father’s dream.”

  He debated telling his mother that he had reached his decision and would take his father’s place—his rightful place—as owner of the Rocking L. Perhaps she wouldn’t feel the need to ply him with sumptuous feasts or cry out her grief on his shoulder night after night. He knew her grief was partly due to the fear that she would lose him again to the life he had built away from her.

  “You must find a nice young woman. Having warmth in your life will settle you. Make you happier.”

  He squirmed in his seat, feeling very much like a quivering lizard in the hand of a small boy. Twenty-six years old and still a child in his mother’s eyes. Yet no anger burned through him at the thought. His mother had worked hard all her life. She was generous and kind, loving and stern. But there was something else at stake, and Ryan struggled to understand his mother’s blindness to the obvious.

  “He was killed, Mama.”

  Her hands stilled then knotted together and rested on the edge of the table. She stared at her plate.

  “You know it’s true,” he said. “It’s what brought me home and what I must do to—”

  “It is not your fight.” His moth
er’s voice was a harsh whisper—as fierce as he’d ever heard it. “Your father believed things could be made right peaceably.”

  “And that attitude got him killed.”

  His mother’s head came up. Her dark eyes were placid yet determined. “Because you do not understand, just as your father did not understand.”

  He pressed his lips together. “What is it I don’t understand?”

  “That these men do not want peace. They want war.”

  “Then I’ll give them war.”

  “By doing so, you would leave me alone. You think you can hold back the force that is against us, but it is too great. There are too many of them.” Her hand chopped the air. “It is not your fight.”

  “If I’m to be a rancher, I must try.”

  She gasped. “You will run the ranch then?”

  “Yes. I’ll have Bobby hire more men to help ready for the drive.”

  “They will fight you even in the roundup. Claiming unbranded cattle as their right, no matter whose property the animal is on.”

  He absorbed her words. “I won’t let them.”

  “You will become their enemy.”

  “Father’s way did not work. Let me try my own methods.”

  His mother bowed her head. “Yours will not work either.”

  “I’ll use caution.”

  Her slim shoulders rose and fell on a sigh. “I will cook for you and keep the house, but I will work in town, too.”

  His mother stood to her feet and gathered her plate. Black hair curled in tendrils around her face, softening the lines bracketing her eyes.

  “Who did it, Mama? Tell me.”

  Her spine stiffened. Without replying, she plunged the dirty dish into a bucket and swirled it around. “I will not speculate. It is dangerous. What is done is done.” A lone tear slipped down her cheek. She smeared it away with a wet hand. “Your father is gone and cannot return to us.”

  ❧

  If Olivia thought home meant pleasant days spent in lengthy conversation with her devoted father, she’d been out in the Wyoming sun too long. Jay Sattler never sat longer than necessary to eat before he rose, kissed her cheek, and was out the door.

  It had been three days since Olivia’s arrival on the stage. In those days she had cleaned every corner of the ranch house and cooked all the meals except that first one. Any attempts to open a real conversation usually fell flat after a few monosyllabic answers from her father. She wanted more than anything to sit down and cry, and she knew just the person whose shoulder she wanted to saturate.

  In her room she contemplated her gowns—fussy styles and materials that would never hold up out here. She wanted something that gave her the freedom to ride. Thinking of her mother’s clothes, she wandered into the room her parents used to share. The pegs on the wall held nothing more than a pair of her father’s trousers. She chided herself. It made sense that her father would have packed or given away her mother’s clothes.

  Olivia crossed to her own room and debated over the gowns again. She had one brown day dress that had very little adornment, though the style was in keeping with the use of a bustle. Olivia had made the decision to leave all her bustles with her aunt, trying to travel as lightly as possible. Aunt Fawn had put up a fuss, lecturing her about “proper dress” and “stylish women of fine education,” but Olivia had been adamant, mollifying her aunt by suggesting she could order one once she arrived in Buffalo. Her aunt’s glower had given voice to her doubts, but Olivia had remained firm, and the bustles had stayed in Aunt Fawn’s care.

  Olivia hugged herself, delighted to be free of the constraints of fashion. Huge bustles, restrictive corsets. . .

  Aunt Fawn would swoon.

  She yanked the lid off a hatbox and pulled out her top hat. A must for any riding costume back east. With a grin of delight, Olivia stuffed the hat back into the box. She’d be trading a top hat for a wide-brimmed western one as soon as she could. Her day seemed to take on a life of its own. She changed into the brown gown, frowning at the added length going bustleless added in the back and sides, but fingering the silky material and appreciating the expense that had gone into it. Funny how she’d never considered her mother’s simple styles compared to Aunt Fawn’s lust for the latest fashion, not to mention her insistence that Olivia dress accordingly.

  Now she would be free of all that, and it felt good. Right, somehow. Though Aunt Fawn had made her feel welcome, there was always an underlying coldness. Or maybe oblivion was a better word. Aunt Fawn didn’t know there was a world beyond her own, making her incapable of understanding Olivia’s confusion when she compared her mother to Jay Sattler’s older sister. Fawn’s stiff smile never failed to show her displeasure when the subject of her brother’s ranch operation came up, and Olivia realized she’d always resented that silent disapproval.

  No matter. She was here now, and despite what her father thought she should do to occupy her time, Olivia had no intention of spending her days twiddling her fingers. She could keep the housework up without problem, but she intended to find a job. In Buffalo. As soon as possible.

  four

  “You could work at the saloon as a barmaid.”

  Olivia gasped at her friend’s straight-faced suggestion. “Phoebe Wagner!”

  “You’d get a fistful of tips.”

  Before Olivia could sputter her utter disbelief, she saw the mischievous spark in her friend’s dark eyes. “How terrible of you.”

  Phoebe spat a laugh as she set a cup of coffee in front of her friend and took the seat opposite. “Thought that might take the starch out of you.”

  “Am I that bad?”

  “When you got off that stagecoach, I thought the queen had come west.”

  Olivia studied the rim of her cup and the chip in the handle. The words settled over her more like an observation than a rebuke. “It’s a change.”

  “Got that right. But you’re here now, and you’ll adjust. Your mama was a kindhearted woman, and underneath all that starch your aunt rubbed on ya, you’ll be one of us in no time.”

  “Tell me about her.”

  Phoebe tugged at a wild bright red curl and shrugged. “What’s to tell? She was a good woman. She gave me a chance when I needed it and taught me what my drunken pa never could.”

  Olivia sipped the bitter, hot brew, made a face that drew a laugh from Phoebe, and plunked her cup back down. “When did Daddy let you go?”

  “After you left.”

  Olivia studied her friend’s small apartment over the rim of the coffee cup. There wasn’t much to look at. Phoebe lived simply. Olivia had never known ostentation until she’d lived with Aunt Fawn, and then she’d accepted it as a new normal. Her father’s home reflected the same simplicity as Phoebe’s. Self-conscious now, Olivia frowned at her gown.

  Phoebe laughed. “We’ll get you over to the dressmaker. She can make you some sensible clothing. No use wearing those draperies in this heat.”

  “It’s the latest style.”

  “Latest style or not, it’s best put away for visits to Aunt Fawn.” Phoebe drained the last of her coffee. “I need to get myself back downstairs or Landry will have my hide.”

  “Is he hiring?”

  “Sure he is.” Phoebe glanced over her shoulder. “But your schooling is best put to use doing something else. You said you enjoyed writing. Why not ask Jon at the paper if you can work as a journalist?”

  “A journalist?”

  “Why not? Didn’t you work for that fancy Philly paper for a time?”

  “I wrote a couple of articles that the Inquirer bought.” She lowered her voice. “Mostly on fashion, but only because Aunt Fawn drilled me on the latest trends. It was dreadfully boring.”

  “Really now?” Phoebe’s smile was bright. Too bright. “I promise you won’t miss the bustles, bows, stays, and braces once you’ve done without them.”

  Fancy frippery and fine footwear were all the things embraced back in Philly. She tilted her head and thought on it a bi
t. “But I look forward to fitting in and being a western girl again.”

  “You always were a bit of a tomboy.”

  “Yes, I suppose I was. Maybe that’s why Aunt Fawn was so determined to dress me to her liking.”

  “And now”—Phoebe opened the door—“I’ve got to get downstairs. Let me know what you find over at the paper.”

  Left to herself, Olivia found the small, one-story building with Buffalo Bulletin written on a board and mounted above the door. The smell of ink and oil made her nose twitch. A lone man was bent over a tray, shuffling through tiny, ink-stained blocks. He didn’t acknowledge her presence, and despite three desks tucked into a corner of the room hinting at other employees, no one else came forward.

  “Good morning, sir.”

  She frowned when he didn’t respond. For all intents and purposes, the man didn’t look old. He certainly wasn’t old enough to have hearing problems.

  “Good morning?” She tried again.

  The man’s hands paused. He squinted at the tray, wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, and continued his search for another letter. Olivia cleared her throat for a third try, determined to make sure her voice projected this time, when the door opened behind her.

  “Miss Sattler. What a pleasure.”

  The wheat-brown hair, longer on the collar, and his trim mustache and pale skin were a welcome sight. “Mr. Mahone.”

  Tom Mahone took her hand in his and squeezed, delight making dimples in his cheeks. Olivia didn’t miss the light of admiration in his eyes. “How is Marv treating you?”

  She followed Tom Mahone’s gaze to the back of the man sifting through the small blocks of wood. His voice dropped. “Marv is shy. Especially around women. He’s a good worker though.”

  Worker?

  Tom stepped back and spread his arms. “The paper is mine now.”

  Marv turned from his work to glance wide-eyed at his employer. His eyes grazed across Olivia. His hand hit a container, and letters spilled to the floor. Olivia watched as the man stooped to pick up the pieces. When she moved to help, Tom touched her elbow.