His strategy worked. Dan Sharpe courteously stood until Rose finished passing the glasses, and although she hated it, Rose settled into Columbine’s chair. Nate finished pouring the lemonade and dropped to the chair on Dan’s other side.
“Is the new Circle 5 owner planning to take possession soon?” Nate queried innocently.
Dan’s careless laugh sent dismay playing up and down Rose’s spine. “I doubt it. He’s an eastern dude who won’t know anything about handling cattle and horse and riders. I’ll be in full control, so he won’t have anything to worry about.”
Oh, won’t he? Rose wanted to yell. If you were in full control of the Double B I’d be worried sick. She bit her lip. Now was not the time to show animosity, with Columbine crowded close beside her obviously drinking in every word Dan Sharpe uttered.
Somehow they got through the hideous afternoon. Rose talked and laughed and rejoiced when Sharpe’s attention turned more and more to her, with Columbine, Nate, and Sam background figures. Suppose she could win the man’s confidence and learn why he had really come back. Or would her playing with fire result in an unknown blaze she wouldn’t be able to stop? Undecided, she unconsciously heaved a great sigh of relief when all the company left, Dan Sharpe last of all.
That night Nate Birchfield wrote an urgent, troubled letter to Carmichael Blake-Jones, care of M. Curtis, with an underlined request that the letter be forwarded immediately.
Chapter 6
Carmichael Blake-Jones had always hated his long name, a name made even longer with “Carey” as a middle name. “Carmichael Carey Blake-Jones,” he often scoffed. “It’s probably as long as I was when I came into this world.” Now, for the first time, it came in handy: he could choose bits and pieces for his nom de plume. At Mercy’s urging, Michael intended to arrive in Antelope and, if possible, find work on the Circle 5 under the short and simple alias Mike Carey, Nondescript enough to pass in the West yet simple and familiar to Michael, the name was unlikely to trip him up when someone addressed him that way.
When all the legal papers that gave him ownership of the Circle 5 arrived, he laughed at himself. Who would purchase an unseen ranch in an unknown state on the word of a former student? His doubts were somewhat subdued when he remembered the integrity of Nate Birchfield, evidenced in all their former dealings.
When Carmichael Carey Blake-Jones, alias Mr. Prentice, alias Mike Carey, swung aboard the train muttering Horace Greeley’s famous piece of advice, “Go West, young man,” he was still filled with a kind of awe at his own daring. If a self-styled prophet had told him a few months ago he’d be cutting ties with everything he knew and setting forth in search of adventure, Michael would have laughed. Now Mike Carey merely smiled. A few turns of the great wheels and he’d be around the first bend.
“Don’t forget everything we discussed,” Mercy called from her position trackside. Mischief curled her lips upward and Michael saw the despairing what-on-earth-now look his sister Caroline gave her husband.
“I won’t.” He waved until Mercy’s dainty lace handkerchief became a small white spot then vanished when the train gathered speed.
The same journey that had thrilled the Birchfields and Browns years before severed the young teacher from his past and effectively changed Michael into Mike Carey. At Mercy’s instigation, he had selected rough clothing to fit his new station in life and she had insisted on washing it a few times so it no longer looked new. She had also insisted that he deliberately scuff the new boots so their shine wouldn’t betray him.
A dozen times Michael laughed at the determined girl but secretly marveled at how knowledgeable she had grown concerning Wyoming. “Clothes may look worn, but how am I going to conceal the fact I am a tenderfoot?” he demanded.
Mercy even had an answer for that. Her round face dimpled. “Easy. You don’t go straight to Antelope. You stop off before you get there, stay a few days, find a deserted cabin or someplace where you won’t be bothered, then practice roping and shooting all by yourself.”
“You think I can learn all that in a few days?” He shook his head in disbelief. “And all this time I thought you were smart for your age.”
She refused to be baited. “You already ride, except you’ll have to get used to a western saddle. I’ll bet you find out the rest isn’t as hard as you expect it will be.”
Now, with every clackety-clack of the wheels carrying him closer to the ranch he couldn’t even begin to know how to run, Mike wondered. He found himself turning to God, as he had tentatively begun to do throughout the summer. Long talks with Mercy, who loved the Lord and didn’t hesitate to condemn her uncle for the bitterness he confessed, had rekindled in his heart the desire for the companionship with God he once treasured. The many hours on the train gave him time to remember all the things Mercy and he talked about at the end of the day.
Two weeks later Mike felt ready to plunge into the world of the Circle 5. He had followed Mercy’s advice to the letter, found an out-of-the-way spot and shot up trees, fence posts, and a multitude of tin cans. Once he had been caught out overnight when he inexpertly tied his rented horse and shivered under a tree until a compassionate moon shed its light and he could see the way back to his shack. Mike Carey learned that night why cowboys and ranchers hated walking and cherished even the poorest excuse of a horse. The boot heels so needed for riding had not been designed for a man afoot.
Every time Mike hit his target, he whooped. At the end of such active days he discovered how good even the simple meals he could manage tasted. Not that he didn’t miss Mandy’s cooking! A dozen times he told prairie dogs and chipmunks, “I just have to get her out here.” Their interested expressions made him laugh.
At first, Mike hadn’t wanted anyone in Wyoming to know who he was. After much reflection he changed his mind. The time might come when he would need the backing of someone respected and trusted. His Rock Springs lawyer—recommended by Nate as the “only guy around if you want an honest lawyer”—fit the description. The afternoon before Mike planned to head for Antelope, he sought out the attorney, introduced himself, and disclosed his plan to get work on his own ranch. The lawyer’s “you may just get by with it” meant more to Mike than anything he could have said.
The beauty of the Wind River Range topped anything Mike had ever seen. In the moment he first glimpsed the peaks and valleys, silver streams and forests, grazing land, and piercing blue sky, he turned traitor to the stormy Atlantic he had loved. He had all he could do to keep from racing the strong and spirited quarter horse he had purchased in Rock Springs on the advice of his lawyer. “His name’s Peso and it fits him,” the attorney said. “He came to me in partial payment of a bad debt. I don’t have need of a cutting horse, but you will.”
Mike stroked the horse’s powerful, reddish-brown neck. “Why is he named Peso?”
“A peso is a Mexican dollar and a good quarter horse can pivot on a spot just about that small.” A wintry smile lightened the attorney’s eyes. “In case you’re wondering, a cutting horse does just that, cuts or sorts out cattle from a herd.”
“Thanks.” Mike grinned at his own ignorance. “Think I’ll ever learn what I need to know to run the Circle 5?”
“I wouldn’t be a bit surprised. Besides, your foreman knows ranching and cattle. I hesitated when Dan Sharpe came to me because he spent some years in prison for robbing the bank here in Rock Springs, but—”
Mike felt like Peso had kicked him in the stomach. “You mean my foreman is a bank robber?”
“Former bank robber,” his lawyer reminded him. “Out here we tend to give folks second chances if they are worth it.”
“And Dan Sharpe is worth it?”
“He appears to be sincere. As the gray beards say, truth will win out.” The wintry smile reappeared. “Just keep your eyes wide open and don’t be afraid to contact me if you need to.”
Mike raised one eyebrow in the way that made his face look more innocent than ever. “Is there anything I need to know abo
ut the rest of my employees, uh, ranch hands?”
The attorney’s rare laugh rang out and he unexpectedly dropped a heavy hand to Mike’s shoulder. “Just that they’re a bunch of rowdy, lovable, ornery, soul-trying boys, some still in their teens. They will play tricks, wait to see how you take them, drive you crazy, and once you pass their tests, settle down into a loyal crew who will stand behind you in high water…and its companion.”
Sobered, dreading those tests yet determined not to fail, Mike gripped the other’s hand, then swung into the saddle. He caught the approval in his lawyer’s eyes and secretly rejoiced over the hours he had spent riding back home. At least he didn’t have to learn that, along with everything else!
“Now, you can’t help your accent,” his new mentor told him. “I’d recommend listening a whole lot more than you talk. You’ll learn more that way, too,” he said cryptically. “Good luck; you’ll need it. One more thing: never lend that horse to anyone.”
Mike turned Peso north, the advice ringing in his ears. “Well, Peso, looks like strange pastures ahead. Wonder why he said never to lend you to anyone? I hated to show any more ignorance than I had to. Maybe it’s the custom of the country or something.”
Peso’s steady clip-clop covered miles of road winding upward, bringing them closer to Antelope. Once Mike reached Antelope there would be little time for riding. To be more authentic, he had left most of his money with the Rock Springs lawyer. “Two reasons,” he told Peso, whose soft nicker and toss of head encouraged confidences. “First, if I show up with money folks are bound to be suspicious. Second, if I don’t have money I’ll have to get a job right away.” Mike couldn’t decide if his intelligent steed’s snort showed agreement or disdain for his new owner.
Years before when Adam Birchfield stood on the crest of a hill and observed Antelope for the first time, he thrilled to the scene. Later, Laurel and her family did the same. History repeated itself when Peso scrambled up a steep place and Mike Carey gazed down into the valley. Early evening shadows and swaying branches softened the rawness of the still-frontierlike town with a purple haze. Only the dim strains of tinkling pianos from the Pronghorn and Silver saloons at either end of town drifted up. A deceptive peace radiated from the town caught between the supper hour and the inevitable promenade later in the evening. Mike slowly rode down the winding road. Every smell, sight, and sound became meaningful.
Armed with Nate’s detailed instructions and a letter of introduction from the Rock Springs lawyer, Mike passed through Antelope’s business center. The dry goods store, the general store with a surprisingly clean window and attractively arranged display of canned goods and merchandise, and a harness and blacksmith shop all seemed familiar to him because of Nate’s crude drawings. Mike finally turned and came to a log church topped with a spire so like the ones in New England that a flash of homesickness touched him. He eagerly looked at the low, log parsonage Nate had described and felt a deep sense of guilt. Could he deceive Nate’s wonderful minister father and charming mother? Perhaps he should bypass the welcome he knew Nat and Ivy Ann Birchfield would offer to keep from blundering and giving the whole thing away.
He retraced his way to a large building on a side street with a neat sign outside that read ROOMS. Better not to chance exposing his identity at the Birchfields. Besides, Nate had said he spent most of the summer out at his grandparents’ ranch. After a good night’s sleep, Mike would decide what to do next.
It didn’t take long to arrange for Peso’s care at the livery stable and get a room. “Just one night?” the proprietor asked. He didn’t seem overly curious, just friendly.
“I hope so.” Mike’s open manner served him well. “I heard in Rock Springs I might be able to get work up here.”
“What can you do?” The man acted more interested.
“Ride, shoot, rope, some of each.”
“If you don’t mind working for an ex-convict, Dan Sharpe’s lookin’ for riders.” The proprietor eyed Mike keenly.
“What kind of man is he?” Mike parried and tried to hide the exultant leap of his heart.
“We’re all waitin’ to find that out ourselves.” The big man laughed. “Used to be Dan Sharpe was as popular around here as the next one. Antelope’s willin’ to give him another chance.”
“Antelope sounds like a mighty fine little town,” Mike said. He signed Mike Carey on the register and his landlord peered at the name.
“I used to know some Careys up Montana way. Any kin?”
Mike’s spirits plummeted. “No, I’m from parts east of here,” he said vaguely. “How much for the night, and is there a place I can get something to eat this late?”
The proprietor named a sum so small Mike almost gave himself away laughing, especially when the big man added, “Reckon Mother can find you some supper if you ain’t partic’lar.”
“I’m not.” Mike breathed easier.
An hour later, filled to the bursting point with the first good meal he’d had since he left Mandy, Mike strolled around the little town. He avoided the Pronghorn and the Silver but instead familiarized himself with the different stores and said howdy to a few loungers. He almost came apart when he overheard one of them whisper in a voice loud enough to be heard in Rock Springs, “Who is that feller? S’pose he’s lookin’ for somebody?”
Mike beat a hasty retreat and laughed all the way back to his spare but spotlessly clean room on the top floor of the roominghouse. Mercy would squeal when she heard her uncle had been mistaken for a gunfighter!
He slept deeply and dreamlessly and awakened to a rosy dawn. A chill was in the air in spite of the promise of another gorgeous and warm day. Must be the altitude, Mike thought. Right after breakfast where he briefly met the few other inhabitants of the roominghouse, Mike headed for the livery stable. Peso stood munching oats and lifting one foot as if impatient to be gone.
“Thanks,” Mike told the hostler. “By the way, how do I get to the Circle 5 from here?’
“Thataway.” The leathery faced man pointed but shook his head. “You sure you want to ride out there on this horse?”
“Why not?” Astonished, Mike stopped with his hand on the reins.
The hostler cackled. “That’s a mighty fine horse, he is. An’ Dan Sharpe just natur’ly takes to fine horses.”
“Not Peso.” Mike laughed and mounted. “I don’t sell my friend here.”
“I don’t remember sayin’ anything’ about sellin’ the horse.” The hostler’s warning floated after Mike but he just waved and didn’t answer. His lawyer’s advice came back, Listen more than you talk…you’ll learn more. It had already paid off.
Mike had thought his cup of delight filled when he first saw the Rockies and the Wind River Range. Those moments fled into nothingness when he rode through flower-blessed meadows, up long slopes, and across streams and reined in on the same little knoll above the Circle 5 that the Birchfield cousins had mounted days before.
In involuntary tribute to his Creator, Mike swept his hat off and bowed his head. Could any spot on earth be closer to a little bit of heaven? The five beautiful peaks visible from where he sat dwarfed his very soul. No wonder the original owner, whoever it had been, named the ranch the Circle 5. “Dear God, I could be happy here the rest of my life,” Mike whispered from behind the swelling in his breast.
The next moment he jerked as if stung by a bee. The vivacious face of Desert Rose Birchfield that Mike had memorized from her photograph flitted into his mind, completing the picture of years ahead. He saw her kneeling beside him with her tanned hand in his as they dedicated their lives and home to their Master; he saw her thick braid flying above her horse Mesquite, her face laughing yet serious.
Peso raised his head and neighed.
“None too soon,” Mike chastised himself. But a dull red glowed in his face and he took a shaky breath to steady himself before making his approach to the Circle 5.
To his amazement, Dan Sharpe little resembled the hardened criminal Mike ha
d imagined. His genuine welcome contrasted with the curious looks from the busy hands. “Say, stranger, are you looking for work?”
“I sure am.” Mike dismounted and noticed the admiration in Sharpe’s face.
“Good horse there. You didn’t steal him, did you?” Underneath the foreman’s banter lay something sinister.
“Haw, haw,” echoed from the surrounding riders and put Mike on his mettle. He gave his most disarming grin.
“Seems like it was the other way around,” he declared. “I never did such horse-trading in my entire life!” He chuckled at the true statement that merely failed to include it was the only horse-trading he’d ever done.
“What can you do?” Sharpe demanded, a wary look in his catlike eyes. “Besides ride. I can see that.”
“Rope some, shoot some.” Mike had the feeling Sharpe’s slouch hid a wild beast ready to pounce at the slightest provocation.
“Are you being modest or can you shoot?” one of the hands called.
Before he replied, Mike caught the significance of the question. Obviously the Circle 5 men were more interested in his skills with a gun than with a rope. Could he pass their first test and begin to win the respect he must have to also inspire their loyalty?
“Toss something,” he told the riders. His searching gaze discovered a tin can off to one side. “Throw that.” While one of the hands reached to get it, Mike silently shot a prayer into the blue Wyoming heavens. Please, dear God, help me to do my best.
The can flashed silver in the sunlight. Spang! Mike’s first shot caught it in the air and sent it flying. The noise drowned Mike’s surprised gasp. He hadn’t been able to practice on moving objects in his sojourn before reaching Antelope. Thankfulness filled him and left him a bit lightheaded.
“Why didn’t you shoot again?” Sharpe’s amber gaze bore into Mike. He uncoiled from his relaxed position.
“Why waste bullets when one shot does it?” Mike calmly returned although he wanted to howl along with the hands who evidently liked his humor.
Wildflower Harvest: Includes Bonus Story of Desert Rose Page 20