Return to Oak Valley

by Shirlee Busbee

  And true to her word, they did. Riding their horses, Nick and Sloan herded the cattle into the catch pen and Acey prodded them toward the squeeze chute. Once caught, Tracy wormed, shot, and preg tested when necessary and Shelly acted as her assistant, handing wormer, plastic gloves, lubricant, or syringe as needed, and kept track of the paperwork. The work progressed smoothly and swiftly.

  To Shelly's relief the ten pregnant cows were indeed pregnant. Sloan and Nick had cut them out from the herd first, and Shelly hadn't envied Tracy the job in front of her. Preg testing a cow was dirty, messy work, and the cows protested vigorously when Tracy eased her hand and arm, as far as her elbow, into their rectums to check for pregnancy. Shelly didn't blame the cows for bellowing at the insult. Manure flew, and by the time they were finished, Tracy's blue overalls, which she'd put on to protect her clothing, were ready for the wash. Smiling at Shelly as she slipped off the dirty, long plastic glove that covered her from fingertips to shoulder, Tracy said, “Unless I miss my guess, come October, November, you should have your first calves on the ground and be ready to rebreed your next crop.” She motioned to the cows. “Now let's get the rest of these babies done.”

  Watching Nick and Sloan work the cattle in the big pen was fascinating, and Shelly found her gaze lingering on Sloan often and more than she liked. He looked very tough and virile in tight-fitting Levi's and a blue, long-sleeved chambray shirt open at the neck. His face was half-hidden by the brim of his black Stetson, and his concentration was all on the cows. The day was hot, and staring at a streak of sweat as it trickled down his dark cheek, she was conscious of a tingling in her breasts, and her breath quickened. That thin liquid line down the side of his face seemed to mesmerize her, and she imagined the taste of it, the scent, the saltiness of his skin if she were to kiss it away.

  Almost as if he could feel her eyes on him, Sloan pulled on the reins and brought his black-and-white paint to a halt. Pushing back his hat, he stared at her across the width of the corral. His gaze fastened on her face, and Shelly flushed and looked away.

  “My God, that's the first time I've ever seen that!” Tracy remarked, a sweaty grin on her face.

  “What?” Shelly asked, glancing over at Tracy.

  “A man eating a woman with his eyes. If you were a T-bone, I'd say Sloan was a starving man with a voracious appetite.”

  “You're mistaken,” Shelly said swiftly. “There's nothing between us.”

  “Uh-huh. Sure. You just keep right on believing that.”

  Shelly made a face. “OK. There is something between us, I just don't know what—and I'd give anything in the world if there wasn't.”

  Shelly tried to keep her eyes off Sloan after that; it was difficult, but she managed. Sort of. It was impossible not to stare as Nick and Sloan seemed effortlessly to move the cattle right where they wanted the animals. It didn't take her long to realize that they had some sort of contest going on—or that they were pitting the skill of their horses against each other. First Nick and then Sloan would point out a particular cow, then aim his horse at it and just sit back in the saddle and hang on as the horse expertly cut the cow from the herd and worked it to the catch pen. The horses' skill was breathtaking as they stopped on a dime, whirled, and, ears pinned to their skulls, crouched like cats, to prevent a stubborn cow from going in the wrong direction. Their movements were fluid and smooth, the sun making their coats glisten and, with ears laid back, heads held low, it was clear they meant business as they kept each animal moving precisely where they wanted.

  Tracy stopped for a minute to watch the show. “Sloan's got some of the best cutting horses in the industry, and what you're seeing is an example of why.”

  “The horses are really something, aren't they? It's like they can outthink the cow, that they know just what it's going to try next,” Shelly breathed, as Nick's buckskin, with no noticeable guidance from Nick, shot off after a cow that had tried to make a break for it.

  They finished up just after noon, and Shelly invited Tracy to stay for lunch. Removing her filthy overalls, Tracy said, “I'd love to.” Washing her hands with the warm water from the tank she carried in the vet pack at the rear of the pickup, Tracy nodded to the cows. “You've got some fine animals there. How do you plan to breed?”

  Nick and Sloan dismounted and after giving the horses a drink of water from the trough, tied them to the side of the trailer. Walking up to where Tracy and Shelly were standing and hearing Tracy's question, Nick said, “Shelly has an older bull that Josh didn't sell—he's got some great old Granger bloodlines. Granger's Ideal Beau is sound and fertile. We'll use him to breed our own bulls. Beau has several crosses to Beau Granger, and we're excited about reestablishing the bloodline.”

  Beau Granger had been one of the best-known Granger bulls ever bred, and his fame had been nationwide. His get had commanded top dollar at Angus sales all across the United States, and nearly thirty years after his death, many of the top stock of today traced back to him.

  “Didn't most of your cows carry a lot of the same blood?” Sloan asked, looking directly at Shelly. Except for that one brief moment, she'd ignored him all morning, and he was getting tired of it. Volunteering to help had seemed a good idea last Sunday when he and Nick had met at the recreation center to help with the cleaning up after the dance Saturday night. The pair of them and a half dozen other volunteers, Tom Smith in charge of the crew, had made short work of emptying trash cans, putting the folding tables and chairs away, and sweeping out the huge cement floor building. Someone else had already taken down the red, white, and blue crepe paper decorations from the ceiling. Four or five women, Debbie Smith and Cleo among them, had been in the kitchen, making certain that it was in order. When the job was done, Nick and Sloan had stopped to talk a minute about a mare Nick had bred to Sloan's buckskin-and-white paint stallion the previous month. The mare had been confirmed by Tracy to be in foal, and Nick had just happened to mention the arrival of the cattle. Since he was at loose ends and had been racking his brains for a way to insinuate himself back into Shelly's presence, it had seemed a heaven-sent opportunity. “I'll be glad to lend a hand when you get around to shots and worming,” Sloan had said casually. “I can even bring along Cognac for you to try out with the cattle. You can see how much cow he has in him.”

  Cognac was a paint gelding that Nick had been thinking about buying, and he had leaped at the idea. “Great! I'll call you once the cows arrive and I know when Shelly wants to have the vet over.”

  Sloan had known that Shelly wouldn't be well pleased to see him, but he figured, ah hell, he didn't know what he'd figured. He grimaced. Which was about par for his relationship with her. Still, he'd caught her looking at him, and from the look on her face, it hadn't been difficult to see what had been on her mind. He'd gotten a boner that would have done a stallion proud and had almost forgotten where he was. Something else she seemed to do to him whenever they were together.

  At Sloan's question, forcing herself to be polite, Shelly glanced at him. And wished she hadn't. God! That dark, intensely masculine face, the blue chambray clinging in damp patches to his chest, the scent of horses and cows all around them made the most lustful images fill her mind.

  Jerking her gaze away, Shelly said, “Yes, they did. Grangers always did a lot of line breeding. That's part of the reason I bought these particular cows—Granger Cattle Company didn't breed them, but they do carry several of our lines.”

  Nick chimed in, “We're going to try to intensify those lines by doing as much line breeding as we can.” He looked discouraged. “It's going to be hard. My herd is small—not more than twenty cows, and I've only got two bulls—neither one a Granger direct.”

  “Which is all the bull you need,” Acey said tartly. “Now come on, let's get out of the sun and go get some chow. I'm starving, and I need my vittles.” He glanced at the two women. Wiggling his eyebrows, his wise old eyes dancing, he murmured, “Fresh women and hot vittles keep a man young, don't you know.”

/>   Chapter Fourteen

  As they walked inside, the house was cool and inviting after the heat outside, and the scent of baked chicken and apple pie was floating in the air. Stopping in the mudroom, everyone washed up in the big old deep porcelain sink by the back door before trekking into the kitchen. As they spied the pile of food that Maria had laid out on the table, there was a collective moan of pleasure. Anticipating their arrival to within minutes, Maria had just put out tall frosted glasses for the pitcher of iced tea on the counter and taken an apple pie from the oven. Bliss.

  Smiling over her shoulder at them as she placed a big blue bowl of potato salad on the table, she said, “I was watching for you. After this morning's work, I figured that you'd all be hungry as bears.”

  Giving her a hug as she walked to the table, Shelly said, “Maria, don't ever even think of retiring. This is wonderful!”

  Maria laughed. “I am retired, child, but I knew if I left the food to you and Nick, you'd all be eating peanut butter sandwiches.”

  Sloan stopped before Maria, and, taking her hand in his, he kissed it extravagantly. “Madame, I thank you. My mouth thanks you. My stomach thanks you. We all thank you.” He glanced at Shelly. “Peanut butter sandwiches?”

  Shelly shrugged. “Hey, I may be a modern woman, but you can't expect me to work cattle all morning and cook up a feast for lunch.” She grinned. “What I need is a house husband.”

  Nick and Sloan groaned.

  “You know that isn't a bad idea,” Tracy said as she sat down next to Sloan at the table. “I think I'll get me one. Be nice to come home after a hard day of wrestling cows and nasty mares to find a warm meal and handsome face waiting for me.”

  Acey winked as he reached for the platter of baked chicken. “Sweetheart, you say the word, and I'll be happy to apply for the job.”

  This sally provoked some ribald comments about old men and young women. Lunch was a raucous affair.

  Toward the end of the meal, when they were all digging into Maria's tart apple pie, Tracy looked from Shelly to Sloan, and said, “I don't want to start anything, but aren't you two supposed to kill each other on sight? Ever since I came to the valley, I've heard tales about the Granger and Ballinger feud. Are you telling me it isn't true?”

  Sloan and Shelly exchanged glances. There was an awkward pause, then Sloan said, “The feud was at its worst before the turn of the century—the rest of us have just sort of…kept up the tradition.” He made a face. “Ballingers and Grangers just naturally seem to find themselves on the opposite side of any question. In a place this small and remote, it creates bad will and tends to keep the old feuds going.”

  Tracy looked from one to the other. “But you're here today—helping a Granger I might add. And Nick and Acey are both here.” She glanced at the two men. “Unless I'm mistaken, haven't both of you worked for Ballingers and Grangers from time to time? Isn't that a no-no?”

  Acey snorted. “No, it ain't a no-no. Grangers and Ballingers might rub each other the wrong way, but the two families had to face the fact that the other residents had to be able to deal with both of them without reprisals, or the area would have been split right down the middle—and that wouldn't have been good for anybody.”

  “The Ballinger/Granger feud,” Nick added, “is the stuff of legends, and like most legends, it all happened a long time ago.” He made a face. “Which isn't to say the families are the best of friends today.” He glanced over at Shelly. “Wasn't it in the seventies sometime that there was that plan to bring in a wood-burning electrical plant?”

  Shelly nodded, wondering what Nick was thinking. This was his family, his history that they were talking about, and yet he had to pretend otherwise. From the expression on his face, she couldn't tell anything, but there was a look in his eyes that made her suspect the conflict inside of him. “Yes, that's right,” she said with an uncertain smile at Nick. “I was just a kid, but I remember all the yelling and shouting that went on.”

  “That was the most recent time,” said Acey, “and it left a lot of hard feelings in the valley.”

  Playing with his empty glass, Nick declared, “It's hard to explain to an outsider. There are several people in the valley related a generation or two back to both Ballingers and Grangers—and they tend to walk a careful line, not taking either side if they can help it.” He grimaced. “In fact they tend to not want to claim either family, since both sides disowned the sinners that dared to cross the line between Ballinger and Granger. These days for most of them the feud is just an interesting family footnote. Sloan and his family and Shelly and…” He stopped, looked at Shelly with bleak eyes, then muttered, “Shelly's the last of the valley Grangers, and when she marries or dies, hopefully as a very old lady, that'll probably be the end of the story.”

  “Oh, I don't know about that,” Sloan murmured. He glanced at Shelly. “What about Grangers from New Orleans?”

  “Roman? He's a Granger all right, but a New Orleans Granger.” She stared challengingly at Sloan. “So I am the last of the Oak Valley Grangers.”

  “Not a very prolific family,” Sloan said dryly.

  “Just because we don't breed like rabbits”—she smiled sweetly—“like some families….”

  Hastily, Acey said, “Well, there you have it, Tracy. In the over a hundred years since the Ballingers and Grangers first laid eyes on each other, all of us in the valley have learned”—and he shot a dark look at both Sloan and Shelly—“to get along.”

  “OK, I can understand that,” Tracy said, pushing aside her crumb-scattered plate, “but what about the principals—actual Grangers and Ballingers.” She pointed to Sloan and Shelly. “Like those two.” Despite Acey's intervention, the interplay between Sloan and Shelly hadn't escaped her.

  Sloan made a face, and Shelly wiggled uncomfortably. How did one explain about her and Sloan? Shelly wondered. She didn't understand it herself. She peeked at Sloan—he didn't appear to be willing to offer an explanation either. There was a small silence, but before it became awkward, with a rueful smile, Shelly said, “It's a weird relationship—I'd be the first to admit it, but not every Granger or Ballinger is at the other's throat. As Nick mentioned, there have been cases of Grangers and Ballingers marrying—also, as Nick said, usually causing a lot of teeth gnashing and disapproval from the two families. Jeb Delaney's maternal grandparents are an example. When they got married, from what I've heard, it brought all the ugly feelings out in the open again and for a decade or two, emotions ran strong again.”

  “Of course,” Sloan said, “you have to remember that Jeb's grandmother, a member of the New Orleans branch of the Granger family, was engaged to Shelly's grandfather's brother at the time. When my great-uncle, Matt, ran off with her—just days before the wedding, I might add—it caused a huge scandal. And you can't just blame the resulting uproar on the Ballinger/Granger feud—any family would have been outraged.” His gaze rested on Shelly's face. “I know I'd be out for blood if someone stole my bride—unlike Shelly's great-uncle, I'd have hunted good ole Matt Ballinger down and killed him…and taken my bride back.”

  “Whoa. You're telling me that a Ballinger stole a Granger bride and the world didn't tip on its axis?” Tracy asked, looking impressed.

  “Hell, honey,” Acey answered, “Ballingers and Grangers have been stealing each other's brides and grooms since the very beginning—that's what caused so much of the bad feeling.” He scratched his chin. “And one or two other things that I'm too polite to mention in front of ladies.”

  Tracy stared. “Let me get this straight.” She pointed to Sloan and Shelly again, who both looked as if they would have been more comfortable having open-heart surgery—without anesthesia—than sitting right here. “You two are actually related—way back?”

  Sloan shrugged. “Way back, yeah.”

  “Way, way back,” Shelly added. “So far back it almost doesn't count.”

  Maria, who had been silent during most of the conversation, rose to her feet. After pick
ing up several empty plates, as she walked to the sink, she said, “Well, I think the whole thing is all very silly. Ballingers and Grangers have always acted like spoiled little children—they each want what the other has simply because the other has it.”

  No one argued with her, and the subject was dropped. Leaping to their feet, they all helped clear the table and would have remained under Maria's feet trying to be of use if she hadn't shooed them out of the kitchen like a bunch of pesky flies.

  “Go. Go,” she ordered. “You will only slow me down.”

  After thanking her for lunch, they meekly followed orders and trooped outside. Since the work was basically done for the day, in a very few minutes, thanks and good-byes said, with a friendly wave, Tracy pulled away. Nick, Acey, and Sloan loaded the two horses, Sloan lingering to talk to the two men. Shelly, intent upon putting some distance between herself and Sloan, wandered to the barn, to the office, giving the others the excuse that she wanted to file the paperwork on the cows.

  Standing in the doorway to the barn office, Shelly stopped and looked around, a feeling of nostalgia winging through her. The barn office had been her father's sanctuary, and despite her mother's repeated request that he move it into the house, he'd insisted upon keeping it right where it was. She smiled. All his old cowboy cronies didn't think twice about stopping to jaw a while when he was out in the barn office, but they'd have hesitated to do so in the house—one of the reasons, she now suspected, he'd clung so stubbornly to it. There had been an old kerosene heater to knock the chill off on winter days, and the high roof and the heavy timbers of the barn kept it cool in the summertime—although she remembered that there'd also been a couple of fans kept handy for blistering August days. The office was spacious, and a big pot of bitter black coffee had always been kept simmering on an ancient hotplate. An old refrigerator just outside the door usually had some beer or soft drinks in it for anybody who dropped in.