by Janet Dailey
“He doesn’t need much, just enough to pay property taxes and put food on his table. He certainly doesn’t spend anything on keeping the place up.” Which was another strike against him, in Chase’s book.
“That’s true enough.” Straightening in the saddle, Ty cast a searching glance toward the cookshack. “I’m surprised he hasn’t shown up here yet, as close an eye as he keeps on Cat.”
“More than likely he’ll ride in around noon—in time to eat.”
Ty nodded at that. “I told Arch to cut the Shamrock stock out and throw them back across his fence as soon as this bunch gets branded.” Automatically, his gaze swung northward in the direction of his uncle’s ranch, then lingered on the pair of riders trotting toward them. “We have company.”
Turning in his saddle, Chase studied the lead rider, a short, wiry man with a narrow face and a full mustache as dark as his hair was white. “Looks like Dode Hensen.” He could think of only one reason his neighbor to the north would be paying them a visit. In the years since he’d had his run-in with the owner of the Circle Six Ranch, the two men hadn’t exchanged two dozen words. This was definitely not a social call.
That thought was confirmed moments later when Dode Hensen rode up to the lip of the grassy bowl and reined in a few yards from them.
“Calder.” He gave Chase a brisk nod of greeting, his eyes cool, a wad of chewing tobacco making a bulge in his leathered cheek.
“Hensen.” Chase nodded back. “What can we do for you?”
“I’m missing a couple cows. Registered Angus. Thought they might have gotten mixed in with your stuff,” he said, then added, by way of explanation in the event Chase thought it may have been deliberate, “Snow drifted kinda high a time or two this winter. Gets packed hard enough and it’s like a bridge over a fence.”
“That’s been known to happen,” Chase agreed.
“As far as I know, Mr. Hensen,” Ty put in, “we haven’t come across any stock carrying the Circle Six, but you’re welcome to cut the herd and look for yourself.”
“Obliged.” He flicked a hand toward his companion, a boy who looked to be in his late teens. “Junior, take a ride down there and see if my cows are there.”
The boy bobbed his head in quick acknowledgment, then touched a spur to his horse and rode down the slope toward the herd. Ty went with him. Dode Hensen continued to sit his horse, his gaze following the boy. Chase let the silence ride. If there was to be any talking done, he had decided Hensen would start it. But it was clear the man had something on his mind.
Below, the teenager quietly walked his stocky gray gelding into the herd. Hensen turned his head and spat a stream of yellow juice into the grass, his gaze never leaving the rider.
“Don’t want you thinking, Calder, that I threw my cows on your grass,” he said after a long minute.
“That was a long time ago, Hensen,” Chase replied. “A different time, different circumstance.”
“Gotten older, that’s for damned sure.” He shifted in his saddle as if to ease a stiffening ache in his bones. “That’s MacGruder’s youngest boy down there.”
“He’s got his stamp.” Chase took in the boy’s big, muscled chest, dark hair, and blunted, pugnacious features.
“Same as your son’s got yours,” Hensen observed, shifting the tobacco wad in his cheek. “My daughter married herself a lawyer over in Billings a few years back. Got herself a couple kids now. Ma’s been agitating to sell out, move closer so she can spend more time in town, with the grandkids. Don’t know what I’d do with myself in town, though.”
“It’s a hard decision,” Chase agreed.
“Don’t reckon it’s one I have to make just yet.” He turned and spat again. “Got a few more years of work left in this body.”
Chase nodded, then made a neighborly gesture. “The coffeepot at the cookshack is always full, if you got time for a cup.”
“Another time, maybe.” The old man gathered up the reins to his horse as the MacGruder boy left the herd and rode back toward them. “Don’t look like my cows is in your gather. Reckon I’ll check with O’Rourke, see if they strayed onto the Shamrock. Can’t afford to lose registered stock.”
“Luck to you,” Chase said, fully aware that on a small ranch like the Circle Six, the loss of two cows and their offspring could mean the difference between a good year and a poor one.
“Hope I don’t need it.” The rancher backed his horse a few steps, then swung it away from the bowl and waited for the boy to come alongside him.
Together they set off, heading toward O’Rourke’s place. Chase watched them a moment, then turned his horse toward the cookshack and rode over to get himself a cup of coffee and a much-needed break from the saddle.
At noontime, the clang of the cook’s triangle rang like a clarion above the din of lowing cattle and creaking saddle leather, a welcome sound to Cat. She was more tired from the morning’s work than she wanted to admit, tired enough that she didn’t argue when Ty ordered her to eat with the first shift of riders.
Cat walked her horse to the picket line and dismounted, careful to keep her face expressionless and hide her fatigue, but there was nothing she could do about the smudges under her eyes. A line had already formed at the washbasins. Cat joined it to wait her turn and unconsciously pressed both hands to the small of her back, arching a little in effort to ease the dull and persistent ache that seemed to be centered there. The action pushed out her small, rounded belly, making its shape clearly visible beneath the loose shirt she wore.
Arch Goodman noticed it as he wiped his wet hands on a towel. His eyes narrowed on her in blatant disapproval. “This is no place for a woman in your condition. You belong t’home.”
Her newly acquired control allowed her to smile in a chiding manner. “And deprive my son of the chance to claim he went on his first roundup before he was even born?” Cat spread a hand over her belly, the gesture at once loving and protective. “I don’t think so, Arch.”
Startled by her response, he blinked. There was a warm glint in his eye when he turned away, a glint that silently hinted he rather liked that idea.
“Good answer,” Jessy murmured near her ear, coming up to join her in line. “It’s the kind of brag they like to make about a Calder.”
“It will be a true one,” Cat responded in the same soft undertone that wouldn’t reach beyond her sister-in-law’s hearing.
A space cleared at one of the washbasins. Cat walked over to it, rolled back the sleeves of her shirt and washed her hands, then splashed water on her face. But the refreshing wetness failed to chase away that dull, heavy feeling that plagued her.
Jessy stepped up to the basin next to hers and ran a critical eye over Cat, noting the faint shadows under her eyes. “Are you okay?”
“Sure.” But her quick smile wasn’t totally convincing.
When she left the grub line, Cat glanced without interest at the food piled on her plate. For most of her pregnancy, she had been ravenous, devouring everything in sight. It was a surprise to discover she wasn’t the least bit hungry. She blamed it on the tiredness she felt, and wondered if she had the strength to get through the rest of the day, troubled that she might have started something she couldn’t finish.
Cat squared her shoulders, trying to throw off the weariness, and glanced around, looking for some quiet, out-of-the way place to sit. Her father called to her and motioned to the vacant campstool beside him. She hesitated, reluctant to come under the scrutiny of his too-sharp eyes. Just then a slim, narrow-shouldered cowboy stepped from behind one of the stock trailers, his hat pulled low on his forehead, half hiding his face. A wash of relief swept through her when she recognized Culley. Quickly she signaled to her father that she would be joining her uncle, then walked over to him.
“Hi. Did you just get here?”
“A few minutes ago.” Culley turned over a five-gallon bucket and motioned for her to sit down. Cat readily accepted the makeshift seat while he squatted beside her. “Thou
ght you’d be back at The Homestead,” he said.
She shook her head and poked her fork into the potatoes on her plate. “The doctor said I should get plenty of exercise. It’s supposed to make it easier when my time comes.”
Culley supposed that was true. He didn’t know too much about woman things, and he wasn’t comfortable talking about them. He changed the subject. “They took old man Anderson to the hospital yesterday.”
Cat looked up in surprise. “What happened?”
“Fedderson says he had a stroke. They don’t know if he’s gonna make it.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” An instant image of Emma Anderson flashed in her mind, along with the memory of the vicious slurs the woman had hurled. Determined to block it, Cat took a quick bite of potato, but it lodged somewhere in her throat.
“Fedderson said Anderson’s been wandering around town like a lost soul all spring. I guess he didn’t know what to do with himself without fields to plow and crops to plant.”
“She’ll probably blame me for that, too.” Cat returned the fork to her plate, leaving it lie there.
Culley gave her a worried look. “I didn’t mean to upset you. I—”
“It’s okay. Really,” she insisted.
“Aren’t you going to eat that?” he asked when she set the plate aside.
“I’m not hungry. I had too big a breakfast, I guess,” she lied, then turned to him with a masking smile. “I don’t suppose you’d mind getting me a cup of coffee, would you?”
“Course not.” Straightening, he went to fetch it.
Alone, Cat sagged back against the stock trailer, letting her weary muscles relax. The baby kicked, drawing a wince from her that was quickly followed by a smile. She rubbed a soothing hand over her protruding stomach, seeking to quiet the active infant within. It was good simply to sit and feel the wind on her face, spiced with the smells of men, horses, food, and the rawness of the land.
Culley came back with her coffee. Thanking him, Cat took the metal mug and sipped at the scalding hot drink, not talking, knowing Culley wouldn’t mind. He had never been a man given to idle conversation. Nursing his own cup of coffee, he leaned a narrow shoulder against a corner of the trailer, content with her company.
After a time the men began wandering back to the picket line, their noon meal eaten, their coffee drunk, and their cigarettes smoked. Cat lingered, taking advantage of every minute of respite she could. Across the way, her father rose somewhat stiffly from his campstool and headed toward the picket area. Cat noticed the way he favored his right leg, and guessed his hip was bothering him again.
When he drew level with her, he paused, studying her with probing eyes. “Are you going back out?”
She nodded. “In a minute. After I make a nature call.”
“I’ll be heading back to The Homestead around five o’clock. You can ride with me,” he told her, then his gaze sliced to Culley. “We’ll be cutting out your cattle.”
A small movement of his head was Culley’s only acknowledgment. After her father moved out of sight, Culley pushed away from the trailer and murmured to Cat, “I’d better be getting my horse.”
He sloped off, disappearing behind one of the stock trailers where he had left his horse tied. With his departure, Cat summoned the energy and got to her feet, automatically pressing a hand against the nagging pain in her lower back. She carried her plate and coffee cup over to the wreck pan, then went behind the stock trailer, letting its bulk screen her and afford some privacy while she relieved herself.
She had barely taken two steps toward the picket line when the first sharp and twisting pain sliced through her, driving Cat to her knees, stealing both her breath and her voice. She grabbed one of the stock trailer slats and hung on, stunned by the powerful force of the contraction. Her mind kept saying the baby wasn’t due for another week, but her body told her differently.
After an eternity of seconds, the pain subsided, leaving her shaken and gulping in air. With one hand on her belly, Cat pulled herself upright and stood for a minute, fighting through the initial waves of panic to gather her composure, organize her thoughts.
A little laugh slipped from her, partly from fear and partly from joy. She was going to have her baby.
Our baby, a voice corrected as a face swam in her mind’s eye, gray eyes shining above high, hard cheekbones.
Cat shook away the image, blocking it out as she had done hundreds of times in the last months. “My baby. This is my son.” Her hand moved protectively over her stomach, asserting possession.
She didn’t know how long she stood there, mentally adjusting to the idea that the baby was coming now, not next week. She felt no compunction to hurry, to sound the alarm, confident she had plenty of time and more concerned that she appear calm and poised when she faced the others, especially the ranch hands.
She thought through the steps she needed to take—send Tucker out to the herd to inform her father, drive back to the house and pick up her bag, phone Dr. Dan—and the second pain stabbed through her, impossibly stronger than the last, drawing an involuntary cry of surprise and agony from her before Cat could bite it off.
This was too soon. There was supposed to be more time between contractions. Even as some rational part of her mind registered those thoughts, she felt the wet gush of her water breaking. Dear God, the baby was coming now!
Still caught in the throes of the contraction and struggling to breathe through it, she heard hoofbeats pound out the familiar cadence of a trotting horse. Someone called her name, but she couldn’t respond, not with this knife blade brutally twisting inside her womb.
She clutched at the side of the trailer, half-doubled over with the pain, teeth clenched, grinding. An uncertain hand touched her.
Through half-closed eyes, Cat saw a pair of worn and dusty boots, then her uncle’s thin and worried face peering at her from beneath his hat brim.
“Cat, what’s wrong? Is it—” He broke off the question, a kind of panic and frozen helplessness in his eyes.
She nodded, the pain beginning to dull now, at last allowing her to focus on something else. “Get Jessy,” she said, panting, aware it was no longer her father she needed; it was a woman. “Quick!”
White-faced, Culley needed no second urging. He bolted from her and sprang into the saddle, sawing at the reins to wheel his horse away from the trailer before sinking in the spurs. The startled gelding leaped into a gallop. Continually jabbed by spurs and lashed by the reins, the horse never slackened its headlong place.
Heads turned as Culley charged the herd, but he took no notice, his eyes frantically searching and locating the distinctive tawny yellow of Jessy’s hair. He rode straight to her, mindless of the cattle scattering before him and the curses of the riders trying to hold them.
“Culley, what the hell are you doing—” Jessy took one look at his white and wild face and her anger vanished. She knew. “It’s Cat.”
His head jerked in a nod, his horse wheeling and turning beneath him. “The baby’s coming. You got to help her.”
Although Jessy didn’t share his degree of alarm, she did recognize that action needed to be taken. Standing in her stirrups, she waved and shouted to her father-in-law, “It’s Cat. She’s started.”
He lifted a hand in acknowledgment. She saw Ty was with him. As one, the two men turned their horses toward the noon camp. Jessy did the same, letting her mount break into a gallop to keep up with O’Rourke.
All four riders converged on the camp about the same time. Culley led them behind the stock trailer where he had left Cat. She was sitting on the ground, half-propped against a tire, her body arching in agony, a fist jammed in her mouth to choke back a scream, her legs spraddled, and her face contorted with pain, sweat plastering loose strands of hair to her face.
Jessy peeled out of the saddle and threw the reins at Culley. “Take the horses and get them out of here.” She hurried to Cat’s side, kneeling down and taking hold of her hand, wincing a little a
s Cat’s fingers instantly dug into it. “Easy now,” she murmured. “Remember to breathe.”
Cat threw her a grateful look, a glimmer of fear mixing with the pain in her green eyes. Chase saw it as he awkwardly knelt beside her, overriding the protest of his stiffened joints.
“Damn it. Cat, why didn’t you listen to me? I told you a roundup was no place for you.” Irritation and concern warred as he watched the look of pain slowly diminish and her teeth loosen their grip on the fist in her mouth, her muscles relaxing.
“That was a dandy.” Cat blew out a breath and gave him a weak smile.
Chase was unimpressed by her show of bravery. “Come on. Let’s get you in the truck and to the hospital. Ty, give me a hand.” He tunneled an arm under her to help her to her feet.
“It’s no use.” Cat shook her head, a smile still edging the corners of her mouth. “Your grandson isn’t going to wait for a hospital.”
“Are you sure?” Jessy studied her closely.
“Oh, I am very sure,” Cat said with a decisive nod of her chin. “The contractions are coming much too fast. This little guy is in a big hurry.” She stroked a hand over her stomach.
“Then we’ll get you to the house,” Chase replied, not to be put off.
“We won’t make it, Dad. And I’m not going to have my son born in the cab of a pickup somewhere between here and there.” On that, Cat was adamant.
“I’ll be damned if he’s going to be born out here,” he snapped.
A breathless little laugh bubbled from her, a mix of anxiety and humor. “Don’t you see, Dad? This is good. This is perfect—your grandson born out here, underneath a Calder sky.”
“She’s out of her head,” he muttered to Jessy. “The baby isn’t going to come that fast.”
The words were barely out of his mouth when another contraction ripped through her, arching her like a bow and making a believer out of Chase.
Grabbing onto the side of the trailer, Chase hauled himself upright and started barking orders. “O’Rourke, tell Tucker to put water on to boil, and we’ll need whatever he has in the way of towels or cloths. And tell him they damned well better be clean. While you’re at it, grab some blankets and bedrolls. Ty, get on the radio and call Amy Trumbo. Tell her to get here as fast as she can. We may need her. If not, the baby will. Then come over to the cookshack and give me a hand with the table Tucker uses for the washbasins. We’ll need to rig up some sort of shade, too.”