Two Brothers

by Linda Lael Miller

  “What is it?” Tristan asked, his voice quiet. It might be her undoing, that gentle voice.

  She stood, managed a wooden smile. Tristan rose, too, and faced her over the table. “I must get back to my sheep, Mr. Saint-Laurent. I appreciate your generosity, but we are adversaries, aren’t we?”

  “Are we?” he countered.

  She retreated a step, for no other reason than that she wanted so much to draw nearer to him. “Yes,” she said, and the word came out sounding strangled and dry. “Yes.” With that, she made for the door, open to the crisp midsummer morning.

  “Miss Starbuck,” he said.

  She looked back, saw him standing in the kitchen doorway, arms folded, one shoulder braced against the jamb. “You’ll need your horse,” he said reasonably.

  She stopped, glanced questioningly toward the barn.

  Tristan pushed away from the door frame and ambled toward her. He had left his hat inside, and the sun caught fire in his hair. “I put Walter out to pasture,” he said.

  “What?”

  “The mare is worn out, Emily.”

  Through difficulty after difficulty, Emily had kept her chin up and her eyes dry. Now, in the face of Tristan’s determined goodwill, she felt like bursting into tears. “Walter is a mare?” she asked, partly because she wanted to know, and partly because she needed a few moments to shore up her backbone.

  “Yep,” Tristan answered, with another crooked grin. His arms were folded again, and his eyes were narrowed against the cool brightness of the morning. “I don’t mind making you the loan of a horse,” he said, “if you’ll take one of the nags that usually pull my buckboard.”

  The loan of a horse, like breakfast, was more than she wanted to accept, but she knew Walter must be exhausted. God knew, she was, but she had sheep to see to, Mr. Polymarr notwithstanding, and Spud, her one true friend, would surely be wondering where his mistress had gone. “I suppose it’s too far to walk,” she said.

  Tristan laughed again. “Not if you don’t mind spending half the day making the trip,” he replied.

  Emily was beginning to understand the concept of killing with kindness. “All right!” she cried, in humorous consternation, flinging up her hands. “I’ll borrow a horse!”

  Tristan shook his head, and although he made an effort to look solemn, amusement lingered around his mouth. He cocked a thumb toward the barn. “Help yourself,” he said. Then he turned and walked back to the house, whistling under his breath, while she stood in her tracks, staring after him.

  Chapter 3

  AFTER SADDLING ONE OF THE PLODDING ANIMALS she found in the barn—neither of them looked fit to ride, if you wanted her opinion—Emily set out for the sheep camp in the hills. She might have been a greenhorn in every other respect, but she had a fine sense of direction, and she remembered each turn and twist in the trail that led up into the hills, where her flock was grazing.

  For all her skill at finding her way, the ride took almost an hour. Emily was captivated, and kept stopping to look back over the land and admire the sparkling ribbon of water that was the creek, the stout and spacious log house with its mortar chinking and double chimneys, a mansion by frontier standards, the abundant, waving grass, miles and miles of it, it seemed, rippling and flowing in the breeze like some fragrant green sea. Tristan’s cattle dotted the landscape as well, but she didn’t begrudge them space in the promised land. In their way, they belonged as surely as the trees and stones, the ground and sky.

  It was Tristan who didn’t fit, Emily reasoned, with some sorrow. When Spud came streaking toward her, barking a joyous welcome and setting the sheep to bleating, she turned from her worries and jumped down to ruffle the dog’s pointed ears.

  Mr. Polymarr, who had been stretched out under a tree, pondering the inside of his ancient hat, scrabbled to his feet, roused by the ruckus, however belatedly, and cursing like a sailor. Spud, ever the gentleman, growled in disapproval.

  The old man waved a dismissive hand at the dog as he trundled over to where Emily stood. “Mornin’,” he said, miser-like, as though it cost him to part with even that one word.

  “Good morning, Mr. Polymarr,” Emily said, amused. She scanned the sheep, knew in that one practiced glance that they were all there, safe and well, if considerably spent from the long trek south. They would need all that was left of the summer grass to prepare for the long, snowy winter awaiting them, she reflected, but in the spring the lambs would come and, soon after, the adult animals could be sheared, their wool sold. A few, but only a few, were to be sold for mutton.

  She had by no means forgotten that the cold months, not to mention Tristan Saint-Laurent and a host of other problems, stood between the difficult present and the first profits.

  “I didn’t expect to see you for a while,” Polymarr said, rubbing his white-bristled chin, then spitting. “How do you tolerate these critters, carryin’ on the way they do?”

  Emily laughed. “They’ll quiet down in a few minutes,” she said. “Hearing Spud barking like that, they probably thought they were going to be moved again, poor things.”

  Polymarr sidestepped along beside Emily as she approached the grove of trees where he had made camp the night before. “I was kind of hopin’ to stay on, at least until St. Lawrence gives me them other three dollars I got comin’.”

  The view from the knoll was breathtaking, just as Emily had expected. She stood gazing at it, stricken to the heart by an unrecognized emotion, neither joy nor sorrow, but something made up of both, and as intense as either. One hand shaded her eyes from the sun. “I suppose I could use your help,” she said, her throat thick. She imagined the valley in autumn, rimmed in gold and crimson and orange, and in winter, muffled beneath a layer of clean, glittering snow. Spring would bring the first pale grass, the crocuses and dandelions and a riot of wildflowers. How could she turn her back on such a place?

  “You may stay if you wish. Just be warned that I cannot—and will not—pay you the same exorbitant wages you’re getting from Tristan.’

  Polymarr squinched up his bulbous nose, baffled. “Tristan?”

  “Mr. St. Lawrence,” she said, with a little laugh, aware that if she said “Saint-Laurent” he wouldn’t know who she was talking about. “I’m offering twenty dollars a month, and you won’t see any of that before spring.”

  “What I don’t see is, I don’t see no wagon. I ain’t takin’ to the trail with no means of shelter. ‘Round about October, it’ll commence to snowin’, and it won’t let up much afore April.” He studied her with a sort of hopeful speculation.” ‘Less you’re headed south, o’ course.”

  Emily sighed. “I’m not going anywhere,” she said, gazing toward the distant ranch house. “I intend to settle right here, on this land. If you choose to hire on, you can either stay in the line shack or make a place for yourself in one of the outbuildings on the ranch.”

  Polymarr’s Adam’s apple went up and down, galloping the length of his neck like an ostrich in a trench. His filmy eyes were narrowed, and he pointed one scrawny and none too clean index finger at Emily. “You couldn’t keep sheep around here, miss, even with St. Lawrence’s say-so. The other ranchers won’t put up with it for a minute. Fact is, I’ve been expectin’ ‘em to come in here shootin’ since last night, and I got nary a wink of sleep for imaginin’ my demise and sayin’ my prayers, lest my soul go astray ’twixt here and heaven.”

  “I see.” Along her slow route down from Montana, Emily had encountered quite a few ranchers, some with small spreads, some with large. They’d watched her coldly as she passed through and by their towns, sometimes touching a hand to a hat brim in acknowledgment, but never smiling or extending any kind of welcome. The women had kept a careful distance, always, peering at her from behind fluttering curtains, as though she were an oddity, too dangerous to approach. Once or twice, men on horseback had surrounded her and the sheep, “escorting” the flock through their territory without even a pretense of friendliness. She’d been an outc
ast then, and it seemed now that things would be no different in Prominence. Her dejection was profound, for she wanted nothing so much as a home, though she wasn’t precisely surprised.

  “You got a gun, miss?” Polymarr pressed. “Somethin’ to protect yourself with?”

  She showed him the .38 caliber pistol in the holster under her serape. She had a cartridge belt, too, but she dreaded having to shoot anyone or anything, for she’d taken little practice, being possessed of a Christian aversion to violence. Anyhow, the noise of gunfire invariably upset her nerves.

  “Not much of a weapon,” the old man said. “Still, I guess it’d be better’n nothin’. You mean to stay around these parts, ma’am, you best get yourself a rifle. One of them carbines, maybe, like they use in the army.”

  Emily shuddered. “Maybe,” she agreed, somewhat forlornly. She hadn’t dared to attempt the long southward journey unarmed, but she had no plans to become another Annie Oakley, either. Her dearest hope was to make a place for herself in the valley by peaceful means; she wanted a home, like Aislinn McQuillan’s, a place of love and laughter, of light and warmth, with bright, pretty dishes on shelf and table, and plenty of hot water always near at hand. It didn’t seem like so much to ask, but she had met with discouragement too many times in her life to believe that dreams were ever assured of coming true, however plain and ordinary they might be.

  She drew a deep and somewhat shaky breath. There was nothing to do, as far as she could determine, but press on.

  Sure enough, at least fifty yards of his fence lay flat, the posts pulled right up out of the ground. From the looks of the tracks in the dirt, half his cattle must have been on the lookout for a chance to make for Powder Creek and mix in with the Kyle herd. They’d practically stampeded, those miserable animals, completely obliterating all sign of the sheep Emily had driven in from the other direction.

  Until then, Tristan had run the operation alone, except for occasional help from Shay and old John Polymarr, but it had become clear to him of late that he’d have to hire on a couple of cowpunchers if he wanted to make any real headway. He preferred his own counsel, being a man with secrets to keep, and independent into the bargain, but he’d reached a pass where a choice had to be made. He could take to the trail again, or he could stay and put down roots for the first time since leaving the home place in Montana, after his folks died.

  Muttering a curse, he spurred the gelding over the broken fence line and began following the trail of hoofprints. About a hundred yards along, the path began to fan out in every direction but back toward home. Tristan held to the center, moving toward the high meadow that lay ahead and above. He was out in the open, leaning into the climb with the horse, and he would have preferred not to be so vulnerable. The cattle hadn’t been accommodating enough to choose a way that would have suited him better.

  He sensed the riders before he saw them, drew the .45 and let it rest easily in his hand. There were two of them, one on a black and white paint, one on a bay stallion, and they’d probably been watching him for a while, because they carried their rifles across the pommels of their saddles, instead of in the scabbards, as peaceable men might do.

  “This is private land,” one of them said. His tone was neither neighborly nor threatening, and he had a long, solemn face, like an undertaker or a preacher fond of hellfire.

  Tristan sighed. He supposed the prudent thing would have been to stop where he was, but they were on top of the rise, and he was damned if he’d let them have that advantage. Reaching the top of the hill, he nodded a greeting, the .45 resting loose in his hand.

  “I guess you don’t hear too good,” said the man on the paint. He was hefty, and not without vanity, if his waxed mustache and slicked-down hair were any indication. The ruddy flush under his skin vouched for an uncertain disposition. “My partner here said this is private land.”

  Tristan repressed a sigh. Even though he was practically lounging in the saddle, he could have dropped both men before they managed to raise their rifles, and he felt the old, not-unpleasant quiver of excitement in the pit of his belly at the prospect. It was not a thing he liked knowing about himself.

  “Some of my cattle’ve strayed onto the Powder Creek spread. But I expect you know that.” He paused. “I’ve come to fetch them back. I expect you know that, too.”

  The ranch hands looked at each other. By tacit agreement, or perhaps long habit, Handlebar sat there choking on his tongue, while his companion did the talking. “You ain’t got no cattle here,” he said, with a slight motion of the rifle. Get out, the gesture said, clear as rainwater.

  Undaunted, Tristan cocked the .45 and swung the barrel forward in a motion as natural to him as turning over in his sleep. “I’m not looking for trouble,” he said evenly. “On the other hand, I don’t mind a lively skirmish now and again, and I’m a pretty fair shot. Wouldn’t it be simpler—not to mention safer—to let me look for my stock and ride out again?”

  “Shoot him for trespassin’,” said Handlebar. Evidently, he just couldn’t withhold his opinion.

  “His brother’s the marshal,” the other man pointed out.

  “And this here’s the fella that shot off half the boss’s ear and got him sent away to the state penitentiary.” Handlebar regarded Tristan with genuine hatred.

  “Now, don’t give me all the credit,” Tristan protested affably. “Shay did his part, along with twelve good men and a sensible judge.”

  Veins bulged at the heavy man’s temples, but his companion, having the cooler head, prevailed. “We’ve got a score to settle with you, Saint-Laurent, and with your brother, too. Billy’s dead on account of you, and the boss is doin’ hard time—an old man like him—and we ain’t gonna forget that. But we’ll have our day, right enough. Meantime, we’ll check our herds for your brand, and cut out any that might have strayed.”

  “I’d like to go along,” Tristan said. It wasn’t a request, of course, even though it might have sounded like one, but a statement of intent. A man who didn’t protect his stock, whatever the risks, would soon be out of business.

  The other riders lowered their rifles, but Tristan waited until both guns were tucked into their respective scabbards before putting away the .45. He was watchful, but in his long career he’d learned to predict what a man meant to do next, and he was fairly certain these two didn’t intend to put him to the test. At least, the smart one didn’t.

  He rode between them, and a little behind, the three horses moving at an easy trot. For some reason he couldn’t put a finger on, Emily Starbuck came to mind, and he reflected that predicting a man’s actions was one thing, and divining a woman’s was quite another. He’d explained to her that the land south of Powder Creek was his, and showed her the proof, but that didn’t mean she’d take her square mile of squalling mutton and strike out for new horizons. Even though he would have willed those sheep to perdition if he could have, he half hoped Miss Starbuck would stand toe-to-toe and fight.

  He had no doubt that he’d come out the winner, in the long run, but in the meantime the competition would be a spirited one, and thus very entertaining.

  He smiled in anticipation as he and the cowpunchers rode through a stand of birch and aspen trees, still climbing, though the slope was gentler now. When they reached the crest of the hill, the high meadow was visible, and William Kyle’s sprawling stone house loomed, with the mountains and the sky for a backdrop.

  Tristan did admire that house, and where before he’d tormented himself with impossible images, in which Aislinn was its mistress, and he its master, that day he couldn’t think beyond Emily. She was the one he envisioned, presiding over the place, wearing a fancy dress, her hair pinned loosely at her nape. He could even picture her carrying a child, his child, her face glowing with health and pride.

  He’d made inquiries in town, with Kyle’s lawyer, where the property was concerned—the old man wasn’t likely to need the place again, and he’d left no heirs—but it didn’t seem prudent to mentio
n the subject in the presence of his escorts, them being so prickly and all.

  An Indian woman, beautiful despite her barrel body and moon-shaped face, stepped onto the porch to shake out a rug. She looked at Tristan with bland curiosity, then went back inside the house. By then his presence had drawn notice from other quarters, and he thought it judicious to pay closer attention to the men watching him from the corral fence. That there were other eyes looking on as well, he did not doubt, but there was no fear in him. His adoptive father had always said he could have done with a few more qualms, where confrontations were concerned, but there had been something reckless in him in those days, and he hadn’t mellowed overmuch in the interim.

  He had no conscious wish to die, but he’d done a few things in the past that made him wonder if some part of him wasn’t courting death. While he was ruminating on that possibility, he kept an eye on the men around him, prepared to summon the .45 if the need arose.

  “Our good neighbor here claims some of his cattle have found their way onto Mr. Kyle’s land,” said the lean-faced man, to the half-dozen cowboys who drew nigh, all of them mounted and armed. Tristan had already figured out that he’d been at Powder Creek for a long while and, given his air of authority, he was almost surely the foreman. “You boys look after him, and make sure he don’t meet with calamity whilst he’s in our care.”

  The ranch hands didn’t respond. They were sizing Tristan up, which was fair enough, because he was taking their measure, too. They looked like no-accounts to him, collecting wages, passing through, but having no particular loyalty to Kyle himself. He was always careful not to put too much stock in hasty judgments, but he trusted his gut far more than his eyes and ears, and so far, it hadn’t offered an opinion. Which probably meant they weren’t dangerous, unless you were stupid enough to turn your back on them, of course. Tristan admitted to a fair number of shortfalls in his nature, but stupidity was not among them. As before, he rode a pace or two behind, and presently found himself overlooking a considerable herd.