Cattle Baron's Daughter

by S. Dionne Moore

  “Marv can clean it up. I’m much more interested in hearing about the reason for this delightful visit. Perhaps it is too much to hope that you were coming to see me?”

  “I don’t know how I could be when I didn’t know you owned the paper.” Indeed, even Phoebe, the woman whose finger was on the pulse of Buffalo, had still thought the paper was owned by another.

  “Jon was ready for retirement.” Tom turned, unable to see the moment when Marv again raised his head, stabbing his employer with his eyes. When he caught Olivia watching him, he returned to his scramble for the pieces.

  “I need a reporter. Didn’t you tell me on the way over that you did some work for the Philadelphia Inquirer?”

  Olivia flinched. “Why, yes. . .”

  “There now. A woman like you must be bored sitting on a ranch all day. Take up a pencil, and let’s get to reporting. I’ve already picked up the latest on the flood that occurred in Johnstown.”

  In the coach, Tom had seemed like such a laid-back gentleman, but his manner now seemed brusque, cocky. Olivia frowned, trying to sort her feelings and still follow the conversation. Something about Johnstown. “Pennsylvania?”

  Tom dragged a chair from behind the desk and offered it to her. “Please.”

  She gathered the yards of her skirt in one hand and slipped into the chair, suddenly aware of her ill-fitting gown. “You were saying about Johnstown?”

  “Flooded. Looking at almost ten thousand dead.”

  She had heard of the town, especially the elaborate hunting and fishing club, whose membership was a source of great envy for her aunt Fawn. But what Tom was saying didn’t make sense.

  “The dam burst and sent a geyser of water down the hillside. Terrible, simply terrible.” He perched on the edge of the desk and waved a hand in dismissal. “What I really want to know is if you’ll take the job.”

  She held up her hand. “Tom, slow down.”

  He braced his knuckles against his knee and leaned forward. Devilment emanated from his eyes and the twist of his mouth. Even the scar on his cheek seemed to pucker into a half-moon grin. “I’ll pay you exactly what I would pay a man—an offer you won’t find in most men-only small towns. How can you refuse?”

  five

  Streams of morning light played off Josephine Laxalt’s hair. Every angle of her body and face spoke of her stubborn determination to get a job in town. They’d spent breakfast discussing—no, arguing would be the better word—over the wisdom and necessity of such a move. Ryan didn’t want to think about it anymore. His mother’s mind was made up, and his ability to sway her was nonexistent. The only man who could change his mother’s mind was dead, and he was even beginning to question his father’s success rate.

  His mother swayed on the wagon seat, her right hand clenched along the edge to secure her position. He groaned in frustration. Women! Or maybe that should be mothers!

  When did she get to be so stubborn? He relaxed his hands on the reins. He’d always wondered where his own stubbornness came from. The thought helped to snuff his irritation. “Where do you want to go exactly?”

  They rode along for a minute in utter silence. When Ryan stole a sideways glance at his mother, he witnessed the softening. She now stared at her lap then lifted her dark eyes to his.

  “Phoebe might help me find a job. Stop right there in front of the sign that says Landry’s.”

  He didn’t bother to tell her he knew the place. When he brought the wagon to a halt, he set the brake and hurried to the other side of the wagon, half-expecting his mother to vault to the ground. She didn’t. Instead, she beamed a beautiful, charming smile at him. And because of that warm charisma, he could see why his father had run into trouble being angry at his mother.

  “You’re a charmer.”

  She placed her hand along his cheek, her grin fading. “And you, my son, are as well. Flash that beautiful smile at some young woman, and she will be yours forever. You’ve a good heart.” Tears puddled in her eyes. She turned away and dabbed at her eyes.

  Ryan brushed his fingers through his hair. He felt weighted with weariness. A cowboy rode by, his horse’s hooves kicking up a cloud of dust. He moved to his horse’s head and scratched along the animal’s cheek, debating his next step and the wrath of his mother’s disapproval if he stirred the debate over her working in town.

  Across the street, the door to the Buffalo Bulletin yanked open. Through the dissipating dust, he could see heavy brown fabric and recognized the auburn beauty he’d seen at the stage office days ago. She moved as if in a trance. Ryan flinched as she began to step into the street. A team of oxen pulling a wagon barreled down the center of Main. The driver stood and yelled. The woman didn’t appear to hear. When she stepped out into the path of the wagon, Ryan sprinted across the street. His boots plowed dust as his right arm hooked her waist. Her eyes widened, and a little scream wrenched from her lips. He drove her backward, lifting her off her feet. Trace chains rattled, and the curses of the driver rained down on them as the wagon bolted past.

  Ryan spread his left hand at her back to help her keep her balance as she recovered. She blinked at him, dazed.

  “My pardon, ma’am. Those oxen were moving fast.”

  “No. I—”

  Up close he could see the spray of freckles across her nose. It gave her the look of an imp, albeit a beautiful one. Her light auburn hair tickled the slender column of her neck. Ryan swallowed and straightened, and when their eyes met, the jump in his pulse forced him to draw air into his suddenly starved lungs.

  “I’m afraid. . .” She gave a little laugh and glanced down. He realized his arm still curved around her waist. Her husband would take offense if she didn’t.

  Ryan jerked his hand back as a crushing wave of retribution washed over him. He turned away. “Be careful crossing the street.”

  A lilt of laughter caught him midstride, and the silken brush of her hand at his elbow coaxed him to turn and face her. “I will be more careful, kind sir. And thank you. I fear my mind was far away. Do you. . . ? Might I know your name?”

  Too late Ryan remembered to remove his hat. She must think him a dolt. He certainly felt like one. “Laxalt. Ryan Laxalt.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Laxalt. As my first article for the Buffalo Bulletin, I shall write on the danger of not watching where one is going while crossing a busy street.”

  He caught the twinkle of mirth in her gaze, but a withering self-rebuke tightened his stomach. “Leave my name out of it unless you want blood on your hands.” A look of dismay slashed her features, and he turned on his heel and stalked off. Anger welled at his harsh tone. All she had done was tease, but the gentle jab of fun had hit him square. To have his presence announced in such a public manner would surely bring the wrath of his father’s murderer down on his head before he could do his own investigation.

  ❧

  Olivia watched Ryan leave, her spirit stale after his harsh words. His dress pegged him as a cowboy. She didn’t intend on wasting another second thinking of his gray eyes and dark hair. That he’d saved her was one thing, but his hard dismissal was, well, rude. Beyond rude. Reprehensible. Aunt Fawn would sniff and tsk-tsk and encourage her to move along.

  But Olivia watched him go against her will. His ground-eating stride exposed his eagerness to be away from her as much as the level of his anger. Blood on her hands? She’d done nothing wrong. And, no, Mr. Laxalt, I won’t write an article about you, unless it is to eschew rude manners and name you as an example. That would require the use of his name though.

  With a sigh, she picked up her skirts and gave a yank to the heavy material. Nothing to clear a mind like the idea of a new dress. She glanced up and down Main and was relieved to see a store two doors down from where she stood. She would begin there.

  Even as she stepped toward the store, she felt compelled to glance over her shoulder. No sign of Ryan Laxalt. The slightest tug of disappointment nagged. Her foot caught in the folds of material, and she tripped. She gra
bbed at a post that sliced a splinter into her palm. Tears collected at the burn of the injury. It had wedged deep into her skin. And it was long. She rubbed the area around the splinter with her free hand and kicked at the excess material pooled around her feet. Feeling much like a horse pulling a wagon, she let the unwieldy material drag through the dust on the road. She was determined to be done with all her fancy gowns once and for all.

  Pushing inside the store, she paused to inhale the familiar scents of wood, leather, and spices. It was a smell like no other—and one that settled her, cloaking her in familiarity. A short, balding man set aside the paper hiding his face and greeted her with a smile.

  “I heard you’d come home to Wyoming, little Livy Sattler.” His friendly face creased into wrinkles that hadn’t been quite so deep ten years ago. Still, Olivia would never forget Papa Don.

  Looking into that kind face stripped away the years, and she was suddenly the small child at her mother’s side ordering a stick of candy in a shy voice and hiding her face in her mother’s skirts. A knot formed in her throat.

  Papa Don stopped at his candy display and, eyes twinkling, plunged his hand into the peppermint jar. He held out the sweet to her as he closed the distance between them. Tears threatened when she closed her hand around the candy. Papa’s face blurred beneath the onslaught of her tears, and she felt him press a kerchief into her hand.

  “It’s the memories, isn’t it, child?” His soothing voice rolled over her as she sniffed. Aunt Fawn would have been mortified at her public display, but she didn’t care. This wasn’t Philadelphia. “When I lost my dear Ellen five years back, it was so hard to come back to the store.”

  She sniffed and did her best to push back the emotion. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know what came over me. I just. . . The smell seemed so familiar and—”

  “No need to explain. I guess a woman has a right to some tears.”

  How could she have forgotten Papa Don’s kindness? He’d always had the utmost patience while she looked over the candy selection. His wife had been a rosy-cheeked woman with a quick laugh and pleasant voice, good for a pat on the head or compliment. In that little-girl place of her heart, she’d wished they were her grandmother and grandfather, because her real ones were so very far away.

  “Mama Ellen. . .” She paused to consider how easily the familiar title slipped from her tongue.

  “Took sick and never could shake it.”

  She held out her hands to the older man, and he took them. “I have such fond memories of her.”

  “She always had a soft spot for you, Miss Livy. Now”—he squeezed her hands and let go then extended his arms out to take in the goods surrounding them—“what can Papa Don do for you?”

  “I need some dresses made. Is there anyone in town who could make them, or could I order some?”

  A draft of hot air rushed and swirled around them, announcing someone’s entrance. Papa Don lifted his head and waved. “I’ll be with you in a moment, Mrs. Laxalt.”

  Olivia caught the image of a dark-haired woman who was shorter than her by a foot. She saw the woman’s nod and heard her soft, accented “Thank you, Papa Don.” Olivia wasn’t sure what it was about the woman’s voice that drew her, but she watched as the woman made her way to a corner of the store that held fabric, thread, and other sundries.

  When she turned back to Papa Don, the sun seemed to rise in his smile. He, too, followed the departing back of his patron. He jerked his head in Mrs. Laxalt’s direction and said, “That’s the woman for you. Sews a streak from what I hear.” His voice dropped even lower. “Probably could use some extra money right now, being she just lost her husband. Came in earlier asking if I’d advertise for her in the window. I told her she could make use of the new sewing machine I got in.” He winked. “Best advertisement for merchandise I could hope for.”

  A new widow. Olivia’s heart ached for the woman. To have loved and lost. . . And she didn’t appear to be that old. Early fifties.

  “If you want, I can ask her,” Papa Don offered.

  “Timing is everything, and God’s timing is perfect,” her mother’s voice whispered through her head. It had been part of a Bible lesson long forgotten, but stirred now because it fit the circumstances. Olivia shook her head. “It’ll give me a chance to introduce myself.”

  Without waiting to hear whatever response was forming on Papa Don’s lips, Olivia crossed to the dark-haired woman rubbing at the splinter tip.

  “Would you happen to have a needle to get a splinter out?” The woman’s smile pinched to concern, and her gentle touch and soothing words as she worked to dislodge the splinter was the balm Olivia’s heart needed.

  Upon closer inspection, she could see better the simplicity of the woman’s dress and the strands that had escaped the brush. More white than black threaded through her shiny hair, albeit more heavily on the right temple than on the left. Her eyes flashed with bright alertness yet held a softness that promised long hugs and tables heavy with the favorite dishes of her loved ones. Beautiful eyes. Soulful and loving.

  six

  Ryan knew a man’s chances of picking up local information revolved around the saloon, the livery, and the store. He began at the livery, hoping he would not have to enter the saloon at all, out of respect for his mother’s reputation among the townsfolk. But should the need arise, he would have little choice. His worries found relief when he saw a boy working a shoe onto a horse.

  “Your pa around?”

  “No, sir.”

  “He own this place?”

  “Yes, sir.” The boy let go of the horse’s leg and straightened, wiping a thin line of sweat from his brow. “He leaves me in charge most days. You needin’ a horse?”

  “No. Not today anyhow. I was just wondering if you knew anything about the shooting that took place here a couple weeks ago.”

  The boy’s light gray eyes grew wary. “You the law?”

  Ryan spit a laugh he didn’t feel. “Just curious to know what people are saying about who did it. Name’s Ryan.”

  “Lance Daniels.” The boy set aside his mallet and stuck out his hand. He gave Ryan’s arm quite the workout. Whatever the boy was, he wasn’t weak. His slim build covered lean muscle. “Most ’round here think Laxalt got what was coming to him. Stealing cattle’s a hanging offense.”

  Hot denial came to his tongue. Ryan clenched his jaw. Best to let the boy talk.

  “Skinny found Sattler cattle in with Laxalt’s.” The boy shrugged. “Seems clear that Laxalt was jealous of the big ranchers and decided they could spare a few head to fatten his herd.”

  “Who’s Skinny?”

  “Sattler’s foreman.”

  “That’s a strong accusation.”

  “Sattler, Bowman, and Michaels are pretty much the law ’round here.”

  “Nobody thought to investigate the accusation?”

  Lance leaned against a stall door and shrugged. “Why would he lie?”

  Ryan touched the brim of his hat. “Good question.” He pivoted, and a trace of dust rose around his feet. “I’ll be sure to use your services when I’m in town. Horse could use some new shoes.”

  “Bring him over, mister. We’ll take care of him.”

  His business concluded, Ryan crossed to Landry’s. The woman who seated him was the same one he’d seen hugging on the beauty he’d held in his arms earlier. Better not to dwell on the way she had felt against him. He had done what any man would have done in his place, but she was not his to think about.

  “Sit anywhere.” The woman motioned. “Name’s Phoebe.”

  Ryan scanned the few people in the restaurant and saw no sign of his mother. Phoebe set a lemonade in front of him and hovered at his elbow as he studied the two choices scribbled on a piece of slate at the back of the dining room.

  “I’ll have the chicken.”

  She was coarse of face and round, but her smile was bright and her expression open and honest. She looked to Ryan’s eye like a woman quite capable
of caring for herself. That his mother would be friends with such a woman shouldn’t surprise him.

  After replaying the boy’s heavy accusation and consider-ing the general restlessness he’d read about since arriving, Ryan thought he might understand his mother’s concern. If the townsfolk thought his father guilty, proving otherwise would be hard work. The experience he had in such matters would come in handy. And there was no excuse for a man accused of rustling getting a bullet in the back. A man had a right to face his accuser. He didn’t plan on resting until he found the person who’d killed his father. His muscles suddenly burned with the need to move, and he wished he hadn’t ordered. Phoebe appeared with his food and set it down.

  “My mother. She was coming to talk to you.”

  Phoebe’s eyes widened. “Your mother?”

  “She was going to ask you about”—he swallowed—“about finding a job in town.”

  Phoebe remained still, palm flat on the table, brows lowered. “Josephine Laxalt?”

  He hesitated. “Yes.” He shook off the chagrin. It was time to let it be known he was home.

  “Haven’t seen her today.” Her eyes shifted to the windows at his back, and her smile appeared, triumphant and playful. “But I think I just found her. She’s with Olivia right there.”

  Ryan twisted on his seat to follow the woman’s finger then stood to get a better view. His mother stood with her back to him, talking to the woman he’d rescued not even an hour before.

  “She’s a pretty one, isn’t she? You’ve not met her yet?”

  “We’ve met,” he managed to say. When his mother and Olivia turned and headed for Landry’s, a blast of nerves assaulted him. He put a hand down to steady himself, and warmth oozed over it, soft and squishy. He closed his eyes in horror over what he’d just done and inhaled as a titter of laughter squeaked from Phoebe.

  “Here you go.”

  He opened his eyes to see the square of cloth Phoebe held out to him. Her face was red and her eyes much too bright. She hicupped on a giggle as he withdrew his hand from the mashed potatoes and accepted the cloth. With quick wipes, he rid his palm and fingers of the mess.