by Sivad, Gem
“She sure as hell got an eye full,” he grunted in disgust. He’d literally been caught with his pants down. Wryly, he rubbed his jaw. His feelings of well-being, earned from his morning of hard labor, were shot all to hell.
Maybe thinking I could make it ranching was a fool’s notion anyway. Tired, his earlier buoyant spirits depressed, he walked around the bend to where he’d left his horse. Taking up the reins, he rode home.
“You’re trespassing,” she’d said. There was no disputing that he had been; it was a stupid mistake. Hell, he could have ridden up the fence line a bit and taken a dip on his own land. The woman had to have been watching him all morning, maybe laughing at him.
But his usual caution had been seduced from him by the willow tree, swaying in the breeze, cool and quiet, offering shade from the day’s heat. Edge rubbed the back of his neck and flinched. It hadn’t been his brightest moment when he’d misjudged the strength of the morning sun and taken his shirt off; he’d burned the shit out of his back.
Bathe in green tea. He wondered if coffee beans would work and discarded the notion since he had none to spare. All I need now is a visit from irate citizens. He mulled over the situation during his ride back to the barn. His grandiose plan to get his place fixed up before introducing himself to the neighbors had just bitten the dust.
The barn was in better shape than the house, so he’d made it habitable first, using boards from the falling down shack to patch the sides. If it ever rained in this county, he and his horse would be hard put to find a spot not dripping water through the roof. For now, dry as it was, the holes gave him a chance to look at the stars at night.
After he stabled his mount, rubbing him down and babying the only living being he called friend, he did chores, pulling weeds from his fledgling garden and tossing grain to the clutch of hens he’d bought.
This morning’s work had been an attempt to bolster his sagging morale. Since he found posts already cut and stacked in the barn, he figured he’d use them to repair the derelict fence separating his property from the land on the other side of the river.
He winced. Unaccustomed to that kind of labor, his muscles ached and his thumb was sore from hitting it more often than the nail. In full daylight, the obvious flaws in his idea made him doubt his sanity.
He was new at owning anything but his horse, his gun and, his clothes. Until a lawyer hunted him down in Indian Territory, he’d never met the man who’d left him the Grayson spread. The lawyer had delivered the summons.
“You’re grandfather is dying. He wants to see you before he passes.”
The opportunity to meet the root of his seed was too great a temptation to resist. Edge had ridden to Abilene and climbed the hotel steps to a sick room. There had been no doubt about his parentage when he’d stared at the rancher who’d finally claimed him. The wasting disease had rendered the man a skeleton, but the huge frame and craggy features assured him he’d met his grandsire.
The old man had lasted long enough to give him a taste of what he faced. “You’re my son’s bastard. He didn’t amount to much, ran off with a whore, shirked his responsibilities all his life, and ended up dead before me. Maybe when he left you behind he did one thing right. Time will tell.”
Even as he claimed Edge he made it clear he didn’t want to. “You’re the spitting image of me and your father. Nobody will doubt your sire, just your character.” He‘d closed his eyes, sagging under the weight of disease and disapproval. “You’ll have to do.”
It was a hell of a thing being called to the dying man’s bed. He was a pious sonofabitch, looking down his nose at Edge. Proud too.
“I sold most everything to die in comfort.” He’d pointed at the hotel room, his expression defensive, as though Edge might scold him for the deed. But then he’d rallied. “Hell, you’re young and strong. The buildings aren’t worth squat, but there’s water and good land. That’s more than most start out with. Take care of it and it’ll take care of you.” Orders in place, the sick old man had scrawled his name on his will, made sure it was witnessed, and died.
Edge’s mother had worked the saloons from town to town and Edge had always figured he’d been the product of one of her business deals. But after meeting his grandsire, he changed his mind. His mama must have been the woman his daddy had run off with. He’d once asked Flo why he carried the Grayson name instead of being a Henry like her.
“You can wear his brand. You look just like the bastard,” she’d snarled. He’d been surprised she recalled his father out of all the men she had to remember.
Edge was already taller than most of her come-and-go-lovers by the time he was twelve. When he thought about it, he figured the happiest time in his life was the spell he’d spent with her in Dodge. She’d taken up steady work at a brothel there and she and her friends had kept him busy cleaning and running errands for them. For a month or so, he’d been a spoiled prince, a sultan in a harem of women eager to please and be pleased.
It didn’t take long to get in the crosshairs of the brothel owner, though. Hearing one of the girls who’d befriended him moaning and carrying on in a room, he’d charged in, ready to be a hero. The customer hadn’t appreciated the gesture and had kicked his ass.
“Ted says you’ve got to go,” his mother had told him the next day. “I’m surprised it ain’t come to this before. Now that you’re big enough to fight like a man, you’re big enough to make your own way. I can’t have you hanging around anymore.” She’d given him ten dollars and set him on his path to independence.
At Flo’s suggestion, he’d approached the livery owner who’d kicked his ass and asked for a job. He’d negotiated the way he’d heard Flo deal with her customers.
“I’ll take food and a pallet in the haymow in exchange for cleaning the stalls once a day.” He figured it was the same principle though the goods were different.
The man had eyed him up and down and offered his own deal. “You can find your own food. Keep the stalls clean, haul the manure to the pile outside and grain the horses each morning. Then get out. I’ll let you sleep in a stall at night for that.”
Not having a better offer, Edge had agreed and moved to the stable. He’d been hungry a while before he’d found a job cutting firewood. It had been a shock, going from being the pampered pet of a bunch of women to chopping wood for food and mucking out stalls in exchange for a place to sleep at night.
His first years alone had been a helter-skelter scramble to survive. That had been fifteen years before but it seemed more like a hundred to him. The worst part had been the loneliness. At first he could hardly stand it.
He figured that was why he’d taken to writing things down. Not having Sandy yet to talk at, he spent most of his time hustling for a buck. But at night or in between jobs, he’d hunkered down in a stall or haymow and talked on paper, scratching out the details of things he’d seen and done.
It hadn’t taken him long to find new work after he’d strapped on his first weapons. He’d auditioned his skill by shooting cans from a fence and moved from boy to man when the stage depot clerk had hired him to ride guard topside on the stage.
Not much sentiment was exchanged between Flo and him over the years. But after meeting his grandsire last fall, and then staying to bury him, Edge had made a trip to Fort Worth where his mother was working in a Hell’s Half Acre brothel. He’d wanted to tell her about his unexpected inheritance. She’d shrugged at the news.
“You’ll see. Won’t amount to no more than piss in a bucket.” She’d gone on to say, “When you sell it, if it’s worth selling, don’t forget me. I can always use a share since it was my pain and inconvenience that brung your good fortune.”
That was the extent of Flo’s well-wishes. He’d felt like a fool when he’d left, acknowledging that he’d only stopped to see her because he had no one else to tell. Instead of heading straight for his inherited property, he’d been reluctant to view it. He figured Flo was right and it wouldn’t be worth a damn, but still, until he’d actua
lly confirmed its worthless state, he had something to dream about.
He’d hung around the White Elephant Saloon in Fort Worth all winter and wasted money on gambling and booze. In February he’d witnessed the gun battle between Luke Short and Jim Courtright and that had spurred him into action.
Edge had been close enough to see that Courtright’s thumb had been blown off. It was the bloody stump on the marshal’s hand more than his dead body that had bothered Edge. He’d been filled with the sour taste of dread even whiskey couldn’t wash away. It seemed likely he’d meet a similar fate if he didn’t quit being a fool with his life. He’d spent the next month playing sober poker, earning back some of his money.
When the weather broke, he’d decided it was time to inspect his inheritance. Primed with the old man’s warning and Flo’s disdain, Edge had ridden onto Grayson land expecting a rundown spread. He hadn’t been wrong—but in some pathetic way, the ramshackle place offered him the roots he’d never had.
The buildings had been a disappointment but when he’d seen the river crossing his patch of ground, his imagination took over. He had a grubstake, not much money, but enough to get him through another winter. The old man had been right; it was more than most men started with. All he had to do was survive the current rough spot.
He’d counted on raising chickens, vegetables and a steer or a pig the first year. He didn’t know a damned thing about raising livestock, but so far he hadn’t killed his horse or the hens so…
He did the chores and spent the rest of the day practicing his draw. If he had visitors tonight, he might need a fast gun. If not, his ranching venture didn’t look all that promising now that he faced the reality of what he needed versus what he had.
It was dusk when he finished slapping leather, satisfied he’d not lost his talent. He didn’t plan on hiring out his gun ever again, but if trouble came, he’d be ready. It gulled him how he’d lost his innate sense of danger. He’d gotten comfortable, dammit.
Hell the woman in the tree could have filled me full of bullets today, and I’d have died with a bare ass and a surprised look plastered on my face.
He left his meal until last, not quite ready to face another can of beans. He’d pretty much been living on that and eggs since his garden had yet to yield anything but work.
He’d kept his gun handy while repairing the fence, but he hadn’t seen any big game, and when the occasional rabbit had stopped, nose twitching and gentle brown eyes staring, it had seemed more like a visitor than supper.
Unfortunately, he’d just bathed naked in front of his first human company. He figured his unstated purpose—redeeming the Grayson family’s good standing in the county—had lost some ground today.
Without knowing whether to expect trouble, he thought it best to stay alert. He kept the lantern burning and cut fence posts half the night. Nobody showed up to roust him about his trespass, so he finally settled down, pulled his hat over his eyes, and prepared to catch a few winks of sleep. When that didn’t happen, he sat up, fetched his notebook, and wrote.
CHAPTER THREE
Emmett is a swine…
Attending the evening meal was obligatory and usually enjoyable. River and Amos had long ago decided they would use supper to go over ranch business; the foreman ended each of his days by passing over to her, any decisions she needed to address.
Usually, that plan worked. Lately, it seemed as though he’d found more than his usual concerns. She studied him without his hat on and sighed at the thinning hair and stooped shoulders. Amos seemed to have aged overnight. Maybe she’d been expecting him to handle too much.
During the current meal, though, she felt her frustration rise as he droned on about seemingly endless ranch business. She yearned to escape and cloister herself above in her studio, capturing every detail of her subject before the image in her mind faded.
Then again, it’s doubtful, very doubtful, if I ever forget the cowboy I saw today. She hid her grin as Amos slid a folded white document in front of her. She didn’t bother to hide her frown when she opened it, read the content, and her lovely departure from reality came to an end.
“This still needs your signature,” Amos said gruffly.
“We are not going to renew Mr. Price’s lease, so don’t poke that contract in front of me again.” River frowned, daring him to argue. They’d already had this discussion and she’d made her decision.
“He needs access to the river.” Amos mumbled the excuse, not meeting her gaze.
“We have never charged ranchers for access to the water. It’s my understanding, that he is doing just that. We’re through with him.”
“He’ll go belly-up,” Amos predicted grimly. “He needs the water, too.”
“If he folds, we’ll offer fair value for his livestock and I’ll shed no tears when he departs.” No, I’ll set off rockets, declare a town holiday, and cheer.
“He has a family to take care of—”
River held up her hand, cutting off his opinion before it began. “If his wife has any sense, she’ll leave him.”
“It’s not your business how Price treats his wife.” Amos looked at her in horror.
“And family,” River added. “The last time I saw the middle boy, he was wearing a black eye and had his arm in a sling.”
“Boys fall out of trees,” Amos muttered.
“And did Mary Beth fall from a tree? He knocked out one of her teeth the last rampaging drunk he went on.”
What neither of them mentioned was the long ago act of violence Emmett Price committed against River. Since he’d been a bully even at the age of eleven and she’d been a precocious eight, drawing everything and everyone in sight, later accounts labeled the occasion a childhood prank gone awry.
Emmett had caught River during recess and, in retaliation for a caricature of him she’d sketched, he’d blindfolded her, trussed her up like a turkey and bound her to her horse. When she’d stubbornly refused to give him the satisfaction of begging, crying, or apologizing, he’d slapped the animal’s hind quarters sending the horse on a dead run toward home.
Even now her stomach lurched, remembering the blind, bouncing ride. It had left her with an aversion for Emmett, horses, and participating in situations she couldn’t control.
“Suffice it to say, our negotiations with Mr. Price are at an end.” She shoved away bad memories and changed the subject before the evening deteriorated into the morning’s argument.
“I see someone is fixing the fence along the willow tree property line.” She made her voice deliberately casual. “Who moved into the old Grayson place?”
“Arthur Grayson’s grandson and only kin—Edge Grayson’s his name. He’s a gun for hire, a cold-blooded killer.”
That surprised her. Her new neighbor’s “beg pardon,” and polite retreat, disagreed with the suggestion he was a vicious killer. Though she’d expected the rundown property to go to auction, planning to acquire the land when it did, part of her hoped she hadn’t scared the cowboy away from his fence building.
The image of her subject popped into her mind, bringing a blush to her cheeks—muscled shoulders, strong back, pelt of chest hair tapering lower… She needed information about him. “Has he hired help? Is he staying or selling?”
“Can’t tell yet. I don’t think anyone’s laid out the welcome mat for him. Aside from one trip to the general store, he’s not been seen. I don’t think he’s hired anyone from around here. What makes you ask?”
“There’s new fence going up between Grayson and Prescott land.” River wasn’t ready to discuss the man building the fence.
“River, it’s just not safe you going out alone the way you do. Aside from the possibility of running into a bear or wolf, now we’ve got killers moving in next to us.”
“I haven’t seen bears or wolves lurking where I go and if one materializes, I carry a gun. I’ll be fine. Stop worrying. As for our new neighbor, I prefer to not let gossip taint my first impressions.” She tried not to look
guilty as she remembered her weapon of choice earlier in the day, a broken pencil stub.
Actually, she didn’t know for certain that her subject was Edge Grayson. Heat scorched her cheeks remembering the sun glinting off sculpted muscles beaded with drops of water. Her fingers tightened, wishing for a pencil instead of the fork she held.
“You need to put ointment on your face, River,” Amos said abruptly, squinting at her from across the table. “All the gallivanting on that contraption has left your skin burned.”
“Maybe,” River conceded, relieved at the change of subject and thankful he saw her red cheeks as windburn instead of embarrassment. Remembering the cowboy’s sculpted muscles and the way they’d rippled under fiery skin, heat coiled in her belly, reintroducing the pulsing tension she’d experienced earlier in the day. Amos cleared his throat which was a sure sign he was going to say something she wouldn’t like.
“River, you’re thirty years old. I’m not your pa, but I’m for damn sure certain he’d say this if he was here. It’s not too late for you to settle down, pick a man and start a family.”
River swallowed the bite of roll in her mouth too quickly and it lodged in her throat, sending her into a coughing fit. Wheezing, she sipped a glass of water and gazed at Amos. “Delicious bread. I don’t know what we’d do without Sarah.”
“You’d hire someone else or we’d go hungry.” Amos snorted. “Don’t change the subject.”
“You’re correct, I would hire someone else but as long as Sarah can come each day, she has a job. I need the time to sketch. Now that I have my contraption as you call it, I can venture farther afield to find the perfect settings for my landscapes.”
“You need to marry.” Amos shook his head, doggedly pursuing his topic of choice.
“They came, they saw, they left.” River waved her fork at him, cheerfully punctuating her remark.
“No,” Amos snarled. “Men came—you quizzed them and scared every one of them away. I’m not going to be around forever. Then what will you do?”