When she left the room Nellie and Dora were standing in the doorway at the end of the hall looking out toward the corral.
“I’m going down to talk with Ruby. Do you feel up to going along?” Victoria could not help being friendly to Nellie despite her antagonism toward Mason.
Nellie’s eyes held a glimmer of excitement. “We would like to, wouldn’t we, Dora?”
Without speaking or smiling the child looked up at Victoria and nodded. Nellie had scrubbed her face and her freckles stood out prominently on her small, upturned nose. Her eyes held a hurt rather than a resentful look and Victoria wondered what Mason had said to the child in those tense few minutes after she had broken the dish and behaved so badly.
A number of hands were sitting along the split-rail fence of the horse corral watching the activity within. As the girls approached they heard a whoop go up from the men, and Victoria saw a dun-colored mustang break away from the ropes holding it and buck its way to the center of the corral. She led Nellie and Dora to an unoccupied section of the fence and they followed her example as she stepped up on the bottom rail and hooked her elbows over the top.
One of the twins was astride the animal. But not for long. One minute he was there, the next he was crashing into the pulverized dirt with a thud. Seconds later he was on his feet and scrambling for the fence, putting distance and a solid object between himself and the maddened mustang. Someone hidden in the cloud of dust churned up by the slashing hooves finally roped the animal and led it to the far side of the corral while the twin endured the good-natured derision of his brother and slapped at the dust on his jeans with his wide-brimmed hat.
“Was that Pete or Clay?” Victoria asked.
Nellie squinted against the sun. “I can’t tell from here. Usually Pete wears a red neckerchief, but neither is wearing one today.”
“Look! Mason’s goin’ to try him.” Dora had lost her reserve in the excitement.
Victoria watched with growing interest as the twins held the mustang’s head down while Mason slowly swung into the saddle.
“I don’t like to see this!” Nellie muttered, but she kept her eyes on her brothers.
Mason settled himself firmly in the saddle and tugged at his hat. His long body was tense and ready, his faded work shirt open nearly to the waist, revealing a hard, muscled chest thickly pelted with dark curls. He wound the reins around his gloved fist and dug his feet into the stirrups. For an instant he looked up and caught Victoria’s eyes, intentionally locking them with his. She couldn’t seem to look away and finally he lowered his gaze and said something to one of the twins holding the horse’s head. He settled into the saddle again and she heard his command, “Now!”
The twins sprang back, one ripping away the neckerchief that covered the rolling eyes of the grulla. Both dived for the fence, out of the way of the slashing hooves. The surprised horse hesitated a fraction of a second then exploded into the air like a spring coming uncoiled. All four feet left the ground at once and the animal twisted in midair and came down with a bone-jarring crash on stiff legs. The drovers on the fence whooped and yelled encouragement, surprised that the rider had withstood that first awesome outburst of temper. For the space of several heartbeats the mustang remained still, wondering why the weight was still on its back. But with comprehension came an eruption of savage fury.
Victoria felt her breath catch in her throat as Mason was jerked back and forth. Once the animal almost went over backwards, then sprang into the air to come to earth front feet first. The longer Mason remained on the crazed beast the more frenzied the animal became until it seemed one or the other’s back would surely snap. Victoria managed to conceal her excitement until the horse charged the fence. She yelled and leaped to the ground, pulling Dora with her. Just as it seemed horse and rider would crash into the fence. Mason yanked the animal aside. The mustang’s eyes were wild and rolling with rage. He shot into the air again and through the swirling dust Victoria could hardly make out anything at all. Someone had lifted Nellie back from the fence and now set her back on the lower rail.
“Jump for it, Mason! He’s goin’ to roll!”
Victoria heard the splintering of wood as the stallion’s hind legs shattered the top rail at the far side of the corral.
“Hes jumpin’!” a voice shouted. “That damned cayuse is goin’ to jump.”
Victoria brought her hand to her mouth to stifle a shriek of fear as horse and rider hurtled at the fence as if to burst it asunder. Mason leaned forward as the stallion leaped. The wild mustang sought freedom and his legs stretched out in front of him. Animal and man rose in midair. Although it happened in the space of a few seconds, the picture would forever be imprinted in Victoria’s mind. The dun-colored horse, its black tail and mane flying, its nostrils flared, eyes flaming in anger and Mason, his hat long gone, his hair as black as the horse’s mane, his sinewy form and that of the horse outlined against the blue of the sky.
“Ride ’em! Whoopee! Ride that cork-screwin’ son of a gun!” The men were jubilant. They threw their hats in the air and pounded each other on the back.
Horse and rider disappeared toward the eastern hills in a cloud of dust. But Victoria was locked in that one frozen moment in time when she had seen man and horse suspended in space. Had the arms that held those reins held her while she cried? Had the man on that wild horse really murmured to her, “Don’t cry, golden girl”?
“You can look now, ma’am. That grulla’s got to run for a while. He won’t be a doin’ no more fightin’ when he’s wore out.”
Victoria heard the words and looked around to see Sage Harrington standing beside Nellie, who still had her eyes covered with her hands.
“Sage! I thought Ruby said you’d been hurt.” Victoria welcomed the chance to get her mind off Mason Mahaffey.
“It wasn’t much. A couple a creases.” Sage’s eyes went from Victoria to Nellie, who had removed her hand from her eyes and was peering off into the distance.
“Was that her man?” he asked bluntly.
Victoria looked surprised for a moment. “Her brother. Nellie, this is Sage Harrington. He’s been here at the ranch off and on for the last five years. Has it been that long, Sage?”
He raised his hand to his hat and nodded to Nellie before he spoke. “Reckon it has, ma’am. But this time I’m a askin’ Stonewall about signing on.”
Victoria laughed. “I never thought I’d hear you say that. You always said you’d not get to liking a place so much you couldn’t leave it.”
He grinned. “Guess I was just shootin’ off my mouth. I’d thought I’d start me a little place, but nowhere seems right except here.” His face became serious. “Seems as you’ve taken on a partner, ma’am. Do I see him or Stonewall?”
“A partner?” Anger welled up in Victoria. “Stonewall is the foreman, Sage. It’s up to him whether or not you’re hired on.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
This was probably the longest conversation Victoria had ever had with Sage and still he lingered. He threw quick glances at Nellie who stood looking at the ground, her hands twisted in the apron tied about her waist.
Victoria had always suspected Sage was a gunfighter, although she had never heard that he had hired out as such or that he had any connections with the outlaw bands that roamed the area. He was a loner who had drifted to the ranch. Ruby had taken a liking to him and fussed over him and bossed him and wheedled him into doing chores in her cabin that Stonewall refused to do. He had picked up pottery-making skills from the Indians and had made several pieces for Ruby. He was an excellent woodcarver and often sat whittling a chunk of wood with a long, slim blade. Occasionally he presented Ruby with a tiny, perfectly formed statue of a horse or dog, or a small likeness of Stonewall or herself. But more often than not Sage tossed a half-finished piece into the fire.
“Are you all right, sis?” Clay looked down into his sister’s eyes. His seriousness told Victoria it was Clay and not Pete. He put his hand beneath Nellie’s
elbow. “You look sick.”
“I’m fine. I’m worried about Mason.” Her voice was low-pitched and slightly husky.
Sage seemed to have stopped breathing. His eyes were riveted to Nellie’s thin face. Her eyes were the color of an unclouded sky, surrounded with beautiful thick dark lashes. Her hair was like thick threads of smoky brown silk, perfectly straight, drawn back from a center part and twisted into a knot at her neck. The attraction of her pale, translucent skin, the small straight nose and the soft red mouth was irresistible. He had spent no more than a few seconds in his scrutiny when she turned her eyes toward him. Like a shy, wild creature she looked away, as if frightened of him.
“Mason’s all right,” Clay was saying. “Mason’ll ride the fire outta that cayuse. Do you want to sit down?”
“I’m just a little breathless. Where’s Dora?”
“Ruby has taken Dora in hand,” Victoria said. “I saw the two of them go into the cookshack. I suspect Ruby will find her a treat.” She looked up at Sage who was still gazing at Nellie. “Ruby likes nothing better than to feed someone. Isn’t that right, Sage?”
“Yes, ma’am.” His voice was soft and didn’t seem to go with the bigness of him. “Guess I’d better be getting on if I’m going to catch Stonewall.” He touched the brim of his hat and limped away.
“Is he one of the regular hands?” Clay asked with a tinge of irritation in his voice.
“He doesn’t work here, if that’s what you mean. But he’s all right. My father liked him, so do Stonewall and Ruby.” Victoria spoke sharply, but Clay didn’t seem to be put off by her tone.
“I don’t like the way he was looking at Nellie.”
“Clay…” Nellie protested.
“Nellie’s a pretty girl. Why shouldn’t he look at her and admire what he sees?”
Clay bristled. “There’ll be no stinking outlaw gapin’ at my sister!”
“Sage is not an outlaw!”
“Clay, please! Don’t cause trouble!” Nellie begged.
“All right. But I’ll take you back to the house. You look like you might cave in.” He put his arm around his sister and led her away.
Victoria could hear them talking in low tones as they left her. Lucky Nellie, she thought. Three brothers to look after her.
She watched Sage enter the bunkhouse. She had never paid much attention to him. He was just one of many drifters who came and went on the Double M. But now that she thought about it Sage had been gaping at Nellie. Well, not gaping, staring would be a better word for what he was doing, staring as if his eyes couldn’t get enough of her. She wondered what kind of background he came from. His clothes were what the usual drifter wore, although cleaner than most—jeans, soft shirt, leather vest. His boots were scuffed, but not down at the heel. His gun scabbard was comfortably worn, oiled and well cared for. The guns in the scabbard had walnut grips, she remembered, and they looked as if they had seen much use.
Sage had filled out since she first saw him nearly five years ago. He was probably about twenty then, a young, homeless drifter whom Ruby took to her motherly heart. Victoria could remember her father sitting on the porch of the bunkhouse talking to Sage, but she couldn’t remember a time when he had come to the house.
Jarred out of her thoughts by the pounding hooves coming from the east, she saw the dun-colored horse coming back to the ranch and walked quickly to the house, refusing to admit to herself she had intentionally waited to be sure Mason Mahaffey hadn’t been thrown from that wild mustang.
CHAPTER
* 5 *
The bunkhouse was quiet when he reached it. Sage eased himself down onto the cot, lifted his injured leg up onto the mattress, lay back, and folded his arms above his head.
At twenty-five, Sage Harrington was a rangy, big-boned man whose blue eyes looked coldly on the world. In moments of relaxation, which came only when there was no other human near, his expression sometimes took on a puzzled, brooding look, as if he didn’t know what it was he sought.
Something strange had just happened to him. The face of the girl, Nellie, had nudged itself past the hard shell he had built around himself as protection against ever loving, wanting, needing another human being again. Usually time and distance had no meaning for Sage. There was only today. He seldom let himself remember that day. He often remembered things that happened before, when his parents, Becky, and he were traveling in the big, well-ordered wagon train; but it was now impossible to place the events in order of time.
He was sure, however, of much that had taken place the week after they had parted with the train at Fort Bridger. His mother had become ill and the other six wagons had gone on ahead, thinking they would outrun the cholera or whatever sickness his mother had. It was sometime during the middle of that week when the second wagon, a tottering, sun-twisted wreck, had pulled up and camped on the far side of the grove. His father had welcomed old man Ramsey and his three sons, the youngest being near Sage’s own age and slightly daft.
Edward Harrington was a calm, good-natured man of tremendous strength of both spirit and body. He gave freely of his strength and overlooked the worst in people. He was also a lover of beauty. When time allowed he would paint whatever caught his eye—a bird, tree, mountain, or a flower, on a scrap of smooth wood, a piece of tin, or a stretched canvas.
Sage stirred restlessly on the cot. He didn’t want to remember the morning his pa had laughed joyously and hugged his ma when her fever broke. “Come morning, we can be moving on. Son, did you see those oxen down by the river?” Horses were hobbled near camp. Indians didn’t have any use for oxen and they were allowed to stray.
Sage had been fourteen, Becky eight. They had walked toward the river together then turned and looked back at the wagons. The forlorn land was quiet. Resting in the shade of their wagon the Ramseys were, for once, not whining and fighting. The old man sat with his back against a tattered roll of bedding, his loose-knuckled hands hanging between his knees, his hat pulled down so that most of his face appeared to be a patch of filthy beard. Now and then he spat tobacco juice without raising his head. The two older boys were sprawled close to him and the younger one was scratching in the dirt near one of the leaning front wheels. This scene would forever be imprinted on Sage’s mind.
Sage gripped his rifle in one hand and started off toward the river. Becky followed. His father had traded off worndown oxen for another pair that had had time to recuperate at Fort Bridger after being left there by previous emigrants. They also had two good saddle horses. He or his pa, whichever one wasn’t driving the team, rode one of them and they tied the other to the back of the wagons.
Sage did not find the span of oxen where he thought they would be. Afternoon advanced. Coolness hastened in when the sun was covered by a thick dark cloud and he wished he hadn’t let Becky come with him. They were a long way from the wagons and when the rain came in driving sheets they turned back and ran to take shelter beneath a shelf overhang. They huddled beneath the overhang until the rain slackened, but by then it was too dark to make their way back to camp. It was a long cold night and it seemed even colder at dawn. Becky’s face was pale and drawn, her eyes unnaturally bright.
“I don’t feel so good, Sage,” she said. But it was only later, when his sister asked, “What’s it like in heaven?” that Sage realized his little sister was very ill. Becky’s body was burning hot, her bowels had run, and she cried from the wretched cramps that racked her. He slung the rifle over his shoulder, picked her up in his arms and staggered through the mud toward the wagons.
Sage remembered very little of what happened after that, but he did recall his feeling of utter weariness as he staggered into the camp. He shouted and tried to run toward the wagon, but the effort made him stumble and gasp.
His folks weren’t up. He could see no smoke. Why didn’t they see him out there on the trail trying to reach them? Then he realized there was something terribly wrong.
There was only one wagon in the clearing. Their wagon. And th
e campsite was littered with their belongings. One of his pa’s paintings lay in the mud, a gaping hole in the middle of the canvas. His mother’s oak bureau lay on its side, the contents of the drawers dumped beside it.
Forever, Victoria Page 8