Even for her dark mood and prideful attitude, Dusty could not help but smile at the woman. She wore orange today—the brightest pumpkin orange Dusty had ever seen anyone wear, a bright orange dress with no collar. She had a simple black ribbon tied around her throat and long, dangling, beaded earrings. This was, with the exception of her mother, the most delightful woman Dusty had ever known.
“Daddy says I can have the dress, Miss Raynetta!” Becca told her with delight.
Miss Raynetta smiled. Her eyes widened, and she shrugged her shoulders excitedly. “I knew he would! And wait until he sees you in it!” Turning to Dusty, she said, “I haven’t put a new dress on you in quite a while, Dusty. What do ya say we find ya one today? Oh, and I love your hair like that. It’s so very becomin’.” Miss Raynetta reached out and pulled a strand of hair from the braid, letting it hang in a soft curl from Dusty’s temple. “You really should wear your hair down, sugar plum. You’re far too young to be stretchin’ it back all tight in an old knot.”
“So I’ve been told,” Dusty informed her.
“And I think,” Miss Raynetta began, taking Dusty’s arms and holding them out to her sides, “I think I’ve got a red dress in the back that’ll do just fine on you!”
“Oh, no, no, no,” Dusty argued. “You’re the only one I know who can wear red and get away with it, Miss Raynetta.”
Miss Raynetta giggled and lowered her voice. “Me and the devil, ya mean?”
“Oh, no,” Dusty protested. “I didn’t mean—”
Miss Raynetta giggled again. “I’ve got a rather brown-sugar shade of calico made up. What do ya think of that?”
Dusty wanted to think it was wonderful. She wanted to think about looking pretty, wearing her hair down. She wanted to think about being dressed in something the color of Ryder’s eyes. But try as she might, she built a wall against it in her mind. She’d been trying for over a week to be kinder to Becca—to her father and the hands too—even to Ryder. For all she’d avoided him, she’d been more civil to him when she did have to be in his powerful presence. Still, to change the way she wore her hair would certainly draw too much attention already! A new dress at the picnic? Could she endure that?
“Come on, Dusty,” Becca pleaded. “Just…just be yourself for once.”
It was an awkward attempt at telling Dusty to change. Dusty chose not to flash anger at her sister. She meant well, after all.
“It’ll surely become ya, pumpkin,” Miss Raynetta assured her. “Don’t be afraid to try somethin’ new.” The woman paused and put a ponderous finger to her lips. “Tell ya what. You wear that new brown calico to the picnic, and I’ll wear my loudest purple just to take the attention offa you.”
Dusty smiled at the woman’s sincere offer, knowing perfectly well that it wouldn’t bother Miss Raynetta McCarthy one bit to wear purple up to meet St. Peter at the pearly gates.
“It’ll be a sacrifice on my part,” Miss Raynetta sighed dramatically. “But…I can do it for you.”
The Hunter girls spent near to an hour in Miss Raynetta’s shop while Dusty and Becca were completely doted on by the dress shop owner. It was as if, Dusty noted, the woman were expending every bit of energy on her and Becca that she never could on daughters of her own—daughters she never had.
“I’ll hem that up for ya right this minute, Dusty,” Miss Raynetta called after her as Dusty crossed the street toward the general store. “You drop in and pick it up ’fore ya leave, you hear?”
Becca was staying behind to help Miss Raynetta, and Dusty walked along the board walkway, wondering how in the world she would ever find the courage to wear a new dress to the picnic.
“Now ain’t you somethin’ to look at,” a man seated on a bench outside the carpenter’s shop chuckled.
Dusty ignored him and kept walking. It was obvious he was a drifter of some sort, for she’d never seen him in town before. She hadn’t even noticed the rest of the unfamiliar men sitting nearby until the man had spoken. She’d been too lost in her own thoughts. Yet when one of the men reached out and took hold of the hem of her skirt, she wished she hadn’t been so distracted. She tugged at the fabric, giving the man a disapproving, prideful glance. Still, he continued to hold onto it, in fact, lifting it up somewhat until her stockings showed nearly to her knee.
“You’ll not treat me with any disrespect, mister,” she told him—although, as several of the men stood and formed a circle around her, her confidence began to wane.
“Oh, I don’t mean no disrespect, miss…just that ya look like ya taste sweeter’n honey,” the man chuckled. His breath reeked of liquor. It was obvious that all of them were drunk.
“Stand down, sir,” came a very familiar voice from behind. Dusty closed her eyes for a moment, irritated that it should be Cash Richardson who had come to rescue her reputation.
“Go on, boy!” the first man growled at Cash. Dusty turned to see Cash standing in the street nearby. “This don’t concern you.”
“If you’re bothering the lady, then it concerns me,” Cash said.
Cash was handsome. His dark hair and even darker eyes were unusually striking. He was very tall, broad-shouldered, square-jawed, and firmly built. Yet something about the fair color of his skin and the perfect cleanliness of his immaculate suit struck a sudden cord of distaste in Dusty’s stomach. It wasn’t hurt, heartbreak, jealously, longing, or anything the like she felt as she looked at him. More it was distaste. An odd wonderment entered her mind as she tried to think of what it was she’d ever found in him to like.
“He said,” one of the men began, stepping off the walkway and standing nose-to-nose with Cash, “it don’t concern you, boy!”
“I’ve no desire to make this unpleasant,” Cash told the man—though Dusty noted he took a step backward. “Just leave the lady alone.” Cash looked to Dusty and said, “Run along, Dusty. These fellows will leave you be now.”
Dusty frowned, unconvinced, as she tried to step past the three men standing before her. It was not at all surprising to her that they blocked her way, grinning with triumph when she tried to move past them a second time. When she tried to turn and go the other way, two other men blocked her way—the first man that had spoken to her taking hold of her arm.
“You’ll go when we say,” he said.
Dusty looked to Cash, who swallowed hard.
“Men…let’s remember…you’ve been drinking, and this is a lady here…not a saloon girl,” Cash said.
Dusty raised her eyebrows at him. The irony of his words, considering his past behavior, was so hypocritical it was almost humorous.
The men, save the one standing nose-to-nose with Cash, ignored him as the drunken leader pulled Dusty closer and spoke directly into her face. “Is that so? I ain’t never tasted myself the kiss of a lady!”
“Well, you ain’t about to start now neither!”
Dusty glanced up when she heard Ryder’s voice. He was striding angrily toward them. He paused when he reached Cash and the other man. He studied Cash for a moment—looking at him as if he were looking at the lowest form of life on the earth. Without further pause, Ryder took hold of the other man’s shirt and let loose with a merciless, tightly fisted punch to the man’s face! Dusty gasped as she watched him forcefully throw the man, with a now-bleeding nose, to the ground. Leaping up onto the walkway, he turned another degenerate around by the shoulders and let go a fist to his face as well, sending him falling off the walkway and sprawling to the ground.
Taking Dusty’s hand, he pulled her from the drunken man’s grasp and pushed her behind himself. Distracted in doing so, Ryder was momentarily off guard. Dusty screamed as the man punched Ryder in the mouth. Ryder stayed on his feet and simply began delivering his own punches in sober superiority. Two men jumped Ryder from behind. He took several hard blows to his midsection before breaking free. Reaching up, he grabbed one man by the head of the hair, slamming the villain’s face down onto his knee and tossing him aside as if he were no more than an old ra
g doll.
“Three to one still ain’t a fair fight!” Feller shouted as he cast a disapproving look to Cash before jumping up onto the walkway and throwing fists himself.
Dusty couldn’t move. She simply stood in astonished, paralyzed shock at what was going on in front of her—and because of her! She watched as Ryder and Feller eventually knocked the three remaining men to the ground, leaving them bleeding and unable to stand. Ryder and Feller stood near panting with the exertion of their efforts. As Ryder wiped the blood from his lip and battered knuckles, he turned and glared at Dusty.
Dusty shook her head in dismay and tried to speak. “I…I…just…” she stammered. She couldn’t think of what to say to him.
Feller reached out and took Dusty’s hand, helping her to step over the bodies of the men sprawling every which direction as he assisted her down from the walkway. Ryder stepped off the walkway. Dusty felt sick to her stomach as she saw the anger blatant on his face when he stepped up to Cash.
“How long were ya gonna stand there and watch, huh, boy?” Ryder nearly shouted.
“I had everything under control,” Cash assured him calmly. “This…this mess could’ve all been easily avoided,” he said, gesturing to Ryder’s bleeding lip and the drunken men on the ground.
A crowd had gathered, and Dusty saw her father, Becca, and the other hands walking toward them. Her father’s attention was on Ryder, not on Dusty. Dusty looked at Ryder still glaring at Cash.
“He shouldn’ta even had the chance to talk to her, let alone touch her, you coward!” Ryder shouted.
“A gentleman uses the strength of his mind in such situations,” Cash told him. “Fists are left to those who can’t think out a situation with civility.”
“Oh, no,” Dusty mumbled.
If there was one thing Dusty remembered about Ryder Maddox, it was his distaste for a man who wouldn’t protect a woman’s honor at any length. Somehow knowing what would happen next, she watched as Ryder rubbed the whiskers at his chin. Without another word, he looked Cash Richardson in the eye, slamming his fist into the “gentleman’s” face. Cash’s feet flew out from under him. He sailed through the air for a moment, his arms and legs outstretched, before landing with a solid thud square in the dirt.
Ryder immediately walked over to him, placed one of his own dusty boots square on the man’s chest, and growled, “Go take a bath, boy.” Then he sniffed the air with exaggeration. “You stink.”
“Come on, there, son,” Hank said, having reached the scene of all the excitement. He took hold of Ryder’s arm and pulled him away from Cash. Dusty watched as Cash got to his feet much faster than probably anyone standing around had expected.
Cash glared at Dusty for a moment. Then he said, “And you complained about the company I keep?”
Hank grabbed Ryder around the waist as he growled, “You dirty…” and tried to get back to Cash, who stepped backward while wiping the blood from his lip.
“Hold on there, boy,” Hank told Ryder as he struggled to confine the young man. “Feller! Help me out here!”
In the next moment, Feller and Hank had Ryder settled down. Dusty couldn’t hear what they were whispering in their low, mumbling tones. Still, it seemed to keep Ryder from flying at Cash with his already bloodied fists.
Cash straightened his collar as he walked past the group. His pride was damaged, but his superior attitude intact, and he said to Miss Raynetta, “I do wonder about the company you and the Hunter girls are keeping these days, Miss Raynetta.” Then, proving himself a true coward, he turned and landed a fist in Ryder’s midsection.
“I’ve about had my fill of you, boy!” Dusty heard her father shout. In the next moment it was her father Feller and the others were pulling off Cash Richardson—Cash Richardson, who’d now been sent reeling again by Hank Hunter.
“Daddy!” Becca screeched.
“Hank!” Miss Raynetta shouted. “Hank Hunter! You quit a-wallerin’ in the dirt like a schoolboy!”
Dusty watched her father’s chest rise and fall angrily as he turned and walked away, pushing his way through the crowd and toward Miss Raynetta’s shop.
“You’re a disappointment, Cash,” Miss Raynetta told him, helping him to stand. “You’ve disappointed more people than you ever had a right to know.” She shook her head, clicking her tongue with disapproval a moment before she followed Hank through the crowd. “Ryder! Feller! Get on into the shop, and we’ll clean ya up,” she called over her shoulder.
“That boy deserved a good whoppin’!” Ruff exclaimed as he and the other hands gathered around Ryder.
“Somebody shoulda knocked him on his…” Titch glanced at Becca a moment and then finished, “hind end a long time ago!”
“Sure enough,” Feller agreed, dabbing at a cut over his eyebrow.
“Come on,” Becca said, pushing at Feller’s back. “You all heard Miss Raynetta.”
As Ryder turned to follow them, Dusty felt herself reach out and take hold of his arm. He stopped, turned, and looked at her expectantly. She wanted to thank him. She wanted to throw her arms around his neck and kiss him squarely on the mouth! She wanted to kiss him so badly the thought of it made her mouth water. She wanted to tell him how wonderful it was to have him rescue her—to have him champion her virtue and her pride—to have him so close she could touch him!
Yet fear overcame her—fear of rejection, of loss. And when she opened her mouth, all that she could manage was a stammering, “I…I…”
He sighed with disappointment and frowned down at her. “Don’t thank me, Dusty. I wouldn’t want you to hurt yourself.” Yanking his arm from her grasp, he followed the others through the crowd.
Everyone was staring at her—not at Cash, who was storming toward his parents’ home in town—not at the drunken, bleeding men that were now struggling to their feet. They all stared at her. Dusty had caused this all—unwittingly, of course. Still, she had caused it; she knew they were all wondering how.
Without a word to anyone, Dusty pushed her way through the crowd of onlookers and walked toward the dress shop. Stepping inside, she was greeted by Miss Raynetta handing her a wet cloth.
“Now, put some pressure on Feller’s head there, sweetheart,” the woman instructed without waiting for a response.
Humbly Dusty walked to Feller and pressed the cloth to his head. “I can do that, Dusty,” Feller grumbled in his shy, mumbly way.
Dusty pushed his hand away. “Let me do somethin’ for you for once, Feller,” she whispered, forcing a smile—though she felt like sobbing.
The whole incident was too much to take in. Being nearly accosted by strange, vile men—the fact the mere sight of Cash made her certain she’d been insane to have ever been attracted to him—having Ryder come so powerfully to her rescue—Feller helping him—even her father involving himself! And what had she done but stand there mute and seemingly ungrateful? She looked over to where Miss Raynetta was forcing Ryder to sit in a chair.
“You chewed your knuckles up good enough, didn’t ya, boy?” Miss Raynetta said, though talking more to herself than to Ryder. She showed Becca how to tend Ryder’s knuckles. Then the woman in orange turned to Hank. “And you!” she exclaimed. “Have ya got rocks in your noggin?” She shook her head and pointed a dainty, scolding index finger at him. “You could’ve been hurt!”
Dusty quickly looked back to Feller as she felt tears fill her eyes. She opened them wide, refusing to blink and trying to will away the extra moisture there as she dabbed at Feller’s forehead. Still, the tears were too many, and as they trickled down her face, she whispered, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” She couldn’t even imagine how it must feel to have the power of a man’s fist meet full force with any part of one’s body. Ryder and Feller had endured great pain and injury because of her. The knowledge, though somehow comforting and flattering, was not easy to bear.
Feller put a roughened and familiar hand to her cheek, brushing away her tears with his thumb. “It’s all right, Dusty. It a
in’t none of it your fault.”
“Well, if I ain’t as dumb as a post!” Miss Raynetta exclaimed suddenly. “Here I am a-makin’ over these men like they was babies, and I didn’t even stop to ask if you’re all right, Dusty, honey!”
“I’m fine,” Dusty lied. She forced a smile as the woman took her by the shoulders and studied her face.
“Thou shalt not lie to Raynetta McCarthy,” Miss Raynetta cooed, gathering Dusty as best she could into her short little arms. “Them men was just a bunch of drunken filth, Dusty! Just drunken filth! You don’t pay no mind to the things they may have said to you. And these here boys…don’t let ’em fool ya! Cowboys take to brawlin’ like fish take to water. Even ones that should be old enough to know better,” she added, glancing over her shoulder at Dusty’s father.
When Miss Raynetta released her, Dusty watched a moment as Becca dabbed at the blood at the corner of Ryder’s mouth. A hot rush of jealousy suddenly washed over her—and greatly disturbed her. She thought, I should be taking care of him. Shaking her head, she tried to dispel the feeling. Her gaze met Ryder’s for a moment. His expression was no longer that of anger. His temper had settled, and his knuckles bothered him more, no doubt.
“Let’s haul this bunch home, boys,” Hank sighed suddenly. “Come into town once or twice a month…can’t even get supplies without all heck a-breakin’ loose around ya,” he mumbled as he made for the door.
“You boys keep somethin’ cool on them cheeks and fists,” Miss Raynetta instructed. “And Hank…you make sure that girl knows whose fault this all wasn’t! You hear me?”
“I hear ya, girl! I hear ya,” Hank chuckled.
“Did ya put your dress in the wagon, Becca?” Miss Raynetta asked as Ryder stood and began to follow Feller out of the shop. “I’ll have to send Dusty’s along later, I guess.”
“I did, ma’am. Thank you so much,” Becca answered.
Ryder started to leave the shop but paused behind Dusty, motioning for her to precede him.
“Oh. No. You go ahead. I…” Dusty stammered uncomfortably.
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