Winds of Paradise (Paradise Valley Book 2)

by Vivi Holt

  Dusty took hold of the rope further up. He couldn’t help grinning at Vaquero’s speech, since Vaquero rarely spoke more than two words at a time. The cowboy was obviously excited at the prospect of seeing his family. “So what’re we gonna do about this here longhorn?”

  “Have to use one of the horses, I think.”

  “Yep.” Dusty trudged through the mud to where his bay stallion Rebel stood grazing on the rise. He mounted, the rope still in his hands, and wound the end firmly around the saddle horn. “Back up,” he commanded, then clicked his tongue and tugged on the reins.

  Rebel tucked his head, arched his neck and stepped slowly backward, away from the river bank. Vaquero released his hold on the rope and moved closer to the calf, laying a hand on its back. It was silent now, its sides heaving from the effort to free itself.

  Soon the rope was taut, and Dusty commanded again, “Back up!” Rebel complied and the rope strained between the calf and the horse. Nearby, the calf’s mother bellowed loudly, pulling at her restraint, tossing her head back and forth in anguish.

  The limp calf allowed itself to be pulled from the mud by the steady plodding of Dusty’s horse and was finally freed from the mud. As soon as it was on hard ground, Vaquero ran to its side, setting it free of the rope. Dusty wound the rope into a loop and once again fixed it to his saddle. The calf struggled to its feet, then ran, stumbling, up the bank to where its mother paced. She sniffed at it, then licked it once.

  Vaquero followed quickly, untying the riata and flicking it free of her, then ran back to where his buckskin mare stood grazing beneath an oak. But just as he crested the riverbank, the cow ducked her head, shook her horns and began chasing him.

  Dusty urged his horse forward, and had Rebel galloping within two strides. He grasped his leather whip and unwound it in a moment.

  As Vaquero reached the mare’s side, he turned at the sound of thundering hooves and his eyes widened. He vaulted onto the buckskin’s back just as Dusty’s whip came down on the cow’s nose. She bellowed and swerved, the tip of her horns missing the horse’s rump by inches.

  “Madre de Dios!” cried Vaquero, grabbing his hat and slamming it hard on his head. His mare pranced in a circle as the two men watched the cow and her calf trot through the field to join the herd.

  “Ya okay?” yelled Dusty.

  “Fine. Thank you for your help. That was close.” Vaquero laughed.

  Dusty joined him. “Yer welcome.” It had been a close call, but things like that happened all the time on a ranch. Dusty thanked the good Lord every night before bed that they’d made it through another day. Tonight would be no exception.

  Standing in his stirrups, he lifted a hand to shield his eyes from the glare of the late afternoon sun. His gaze wandered over the rambling heard of longhorns as they wound their way around the hill where Paradise Ranch sat, overlooking the valley. He could see Thomas O’Reilly, the ranch’s owner, galloping his horse Alto around the front of the herd, keeping them in place while they waited, and waved one arm above his head. Thomas waved back. They were ready to move on. Dusty sat in his saddle and urged his mount into a trot.

  The cattle had been pastured at the southern end of Paradise Valley for the last days of the long cold winter. Thomas wanted to move them closer to the ranch now that spring was approaching. They had steers to geld, yearlings to brand, sick cattle to tend to. The grass around the ranch house had grown tall while the herd was gone, and waved in the breeze that howled through the valley, whistling past the peaks towering on the eastern side.

  Dusty pressed his heels into Rebel’s sides, and he shot forward to chase down some escapees who’d made a run for the Yellowstone River. He circled around the animals, bringing them back safely to the herd.

  The northern pasture which surrounded the ranch ran along the length of the river. Dusty, Vaquero and Thomas pressed the herd forward into the pasture, closing the gate behind the longhorns as they bucked and jostled amongst themselves, seeming glad to be back. Thomas wiped the sweat from his brow and grinned at the others. “Great job today, Dusty, Vaquero. They’re a mite feisty, it seems.” He slapped his horse on the neck. “Good boy, Alto.”

  Vaquero tipped his hat and headed toward the barn. The other two men trotted up the long winding driveway that ascended the hill toward the house. They let the reins hang loose against the necks of their mounts, and the horses found their own pace up the hill, panting hard after a long day’s work.

  Dusty tipped his hat back and ran a hand over his full beard. “What do ya think of them young whelps joinin’ the herd? They look mighty fine to me.”

  “I’m happy with them,” agreed Thomas. “The herd’s growin’ nicely. We’ll even have a few to sell at auction this year.”

  When they reached the top of the hill, Paradise Ranch stretched out before them. The hilltop itself was flat and wide. On the right was the bunkhouse where the cowboys slept and shared their meals, along with the occasional game of cards and, if Cookie had his way, plenty of mash whiskey. To the left was the ranch house, newly completed, where Thomas and his wife Genevieve lived. And between the two stood a chicken coop, a small livestock yard and the northern edge of a large vegetable patch that stretched across most of the backyard.

  In the vegetable patch Dusty saw a woman squatting beside a row of beans whose tendrils reached skyward, curling tightly around thin stakes. She turned at the sound of hooves on the hard driveway and greeted them with a wave, then stood, brushed her hands against her apron and hurried to meet them with a smile on her pretty face. “You’re back,” she said, tucking a strand of dark hair back beneath her bonnet.

  “Yep.” Thomas tipped his hat, his eyes sparkling.

  “Good morning, Genny.” Dusty pulled his Stetson from his head and held it against his chest with one hand.

  “Good morning to you, Dusty,” she replied with a smile. “Did it all go well? I see you found the herd, so that’s a good start.” She laughed.

  “It all went very well, thank ya, ma’am.” He returned his hat to his head. “And we gotta few critters more’n we had ‘fore we took ‘em to the southern pastures, which I’m sure ya’ll like.”

  “How wonderful,” said Genevieve. “I’ll have to take a look at them later today. Now that Patches is all grown up, I miss having a calf to feed.”

  Thomas laughed and slipped from Alto’s back, his feet landing with a dull thud on the grass. He strode over to where she stood, wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her close. She laughed, a tinkling little laugh, and he kissed her full on the lips.

  Dusty watched them with a tinge of embarrassment and envy. It wasn’t that he pined for Genevieve – well, not any longer. It was obvious she and Thomas were meant for each other. But he sometimes wished he could have what they had. Long days and nights spent working on the ranch got lonesome sometimes, and with the nearest town a half day’s ride away, companions of the fairer sex were few and far between.

  It was true that the ride to town was better than it had been, since Thomas had worked hard to make a well-worn trail, complete with bridges to cross meandering creeks, all the way to Bozeman. But Dusty rarely made the trip himself, preferring to leave travel to the others. He hadn’t courted anyone since he left Fort Worth two years ago with Thomas’ herd of longhorns, bound for Montana Territory.

  Genevieve and Sarah were the only womenfolk on the ranch – and Sarah was married to another cowboy, Bill Hanover, and expecting their second child. There were few neighbors in the valley – the Drothertons were the nearest and had four daughters, but the oldest was twelve, so it would be years before any of them were old enough to marry. Dusty didn’t feel he could wait years – he’d waited so long already – and couldn’t stomach the idea of a bride so young he’d feel he had to hold her hand to cross the street. No, he wanted a woman, an equal, someone he could share his life with.

  He turned his horse around and headed back downhill to the imposing barn at the base where the steeds were stabl
ed. He dismounted, removed the saddle and grabbed a curry brush from inside to groom Rebel’s sweat-streaked sides. He brushed and brushed, getting more agitated all the time, until the horse’s sides were dry and gleamed in the waning sunlight.

  Why was there no one for him to share his life with? As a boy growing up in Georgia, there were always girls around, and he’d thought he had all the time in the world to pick one. But by the time he was twenty-one, he hadn’t yet found one he truly wanted. He’d courted a few, of course, but there was always something about them that rubbed him the wrong way. He couldn’t put his finger on what he was looking for exactly, just that he hadn’t found it. He’d also enjoyed a little too much liquor and too many hands of cards for his own good, or theirs.

  He’d managed to avoid joining the Confederate Army – a foolish war for foolish purposes, he thought – by selling his parents’ farm (they’d both died of influenza), heading west and going around the countryside working for ranchers as a hired hand. But finding women to court became a rarity, rarer still once he joined the cattle drives. By the time he was hired by Thomas in Fort Worth to help drive three thousand head of longhorns all the way to Montana Territory, every young woman he knew back home or in Texas had married, and he wondered if he’d missed his chance.

  Then Genevieve joined the drive – stowing aboard the chuck wagon – and his heart had woken from its slumber. She was beautiful, feisty, fun and kind, and he’d fallen for her, hard and fast. But it wasn’t long before he realized she had feelings for Thomas. When they finally made it to Paradise Valley and settled, there was so much work to be done that he didn’t have a chance to think about courting, or loneliness. There was the bunkhouse to build, then the barn, and fences to erect, cattle to care for, a ranch house to complete.

  Now, almost two years later, most of that work was done and he had time to think. He’d done a lot of thinking throughout the long winter, when they were holed up in the bunkhouse or the ranch house. Only so much time could be spent with his fiddle or his mouth organ or a book from Genevieve and Thomas’ library. But thinking did little but foster discontent.

  He remembered something his Mama had told him as a boy: “Don’t waste no time on thinkin’ things that’ll only make ya fret. Busy hands and a busy mind, that’ll keep ya out of trouble, my boy.” Generally, he’d stuck to her rule throughout his adult life. But now there didn’t seem to be any way to keep those thoughts at bay. He wasn’t as busy has he had been, and his mind wandered wherever it wished. Lately it only wanted to meditate on his lonely state.

  He sighed and finished grooming his horse. There was nothing for it but to accept it, anyhow. He wasn’t even sure he was suited to married life. Many a time a yearning for the open trail took over, and he’d set off on a journey to a distant town at a moments’ notice. What would he do with a wife and family? No, however lonesome it might feel at times, he might be better suited to the life of a bachelor.

  And at Paradise Ranch, he finally felt as though he’d found a home – a place where he felt at ease, where he belonged. He’d be best served to appreciate what he had instead of pining for what he didn’t, he told himself. Besides, when it came down to it, there weren’t many ladies whose company he could stand for longer than a few minutes at a time anyways.

  He led Rebel into a stall where he fed and watered him, then walked back up the hill to the bunkhouse. Walking inside, he went to the fireplace to warm his hands. The weather had warmed in recent weeks, but there was still a chill in the evening air. He sighed again and stretched the kinks from his back.

  The rest of the crew was there already and a healthy fire roared in the stove. A pot of coffee bubbled and simmered alongside a pan of beans and another of fresh-made biscuits. Phil “Cookie” Dunston sat with Stanley Cooper, another ranch hand, on either side of a table on makeshift chairs. Each held a hand of cards and warily watched the other through narrowed eyes.

  “Yer cheatin’ and I know it,” snarled Cookie through clenched teeth. He chewed on a wad of tobacco and sent a stream of saliva shooting through the air into a coffee can resting on the floor at his feet.

  “I ain’t cheatin’, Cookie, I swear!” cried Coop, working hard to suppress a grin.

  Cookie growled, then laid his cards on the table. “Pony up, boy.”

  Coop laid his cards on the table, and Cookie slammed his hand down on the rickety piece of furniture, sending the cards scattering wildly across the room.

  Two other hands, Hank Oster and Dan Graham, burst into laughter where they sat by the stove. Dusty glanced over, saw the edge of a card protruding from Dan’s sleeve, and smirked. Poor Cookie never could figure out how Coop cheated, but cheat he did, every time. Just so they could see the blood rush to Cookie’s face the way it did now.

  “Again!” Cookie demanded, righting the table and picking up the scattered cards.

  Coop nodded, his hands linked behind his head, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “If ya wanna, Cookie, though ya might not wanna lose to me again. Maybe ya should take up cross-stitchin’ or somethin’ less likely to cost ya. I know we’re only playin’ for pennies, but still, ya’ll be a poor man ‘fore it’s over if’n ya don’t slow down.” Dan and Ost laughed at that, slapping their hands against their thighs.

  Cookie glared at them. “I reckon I’ll take my chances. I was always a keen card player and still am – I just need to warm up is all.”

  “Maybe yer gettin’ too old for it,” suggested Ost, the young wrangler who’d only turned nineteen a few weeks earlier.

  Cookie’s face was thunderous. “Too old? Too old? I ain’t too old to whip yer scrawny butt, ya just … Too old, he says. Hmph. I’ll show the lot of ya.”

  They played again, and Dusty perched on top of a rough-hewn stool to watch. Whenever Cookie took a swig of mash whiskey from his flask, Dan pressed a card into Coop’s hand. Coop and Cookie laid their cards on the table once more, and Coop won yet again.

  Cookie exploded with rage. “Yer a cheat! A rotten, lousy cheat. There ain’t no way, no how, a man could get so many good hands in a row. There ain’t no way.” He stood, grabbed his flask and stormed out, raging as he went. Dusty, Ost, Dan and Coop all laughed until their eyes were full of tears. Dusty’s gloom from earlier was all but forgotten.

  When the laughter subsided, the bunkhouse went quiet as each of the cowboys prepared for bed, lost in their own thoughts. Only the sound of Vaquero’s snoring filtered through the log walls.

  Dusty threw himself down onto his bunk and stared at the timber slats of Vaquero’s bed above his, his melancholy returning. He laced his hands behind his head and contemplated his situation. He’d always wanted a place of his own, a house he could build with his own two hands and a garden to tend in his spare time. He’d assumed he could worry about that sort of thing once he had a family, but supposing he never did?

  Well, who was to say he couldn’t have a house and a garden even without a family? Maybe he should do those things anyway. If he waited until he found a wife (and he wasn’t even sure he wanted one) he might never have a place of his own. That was it – he’d build a cottage. No doubt Thomas wouldn’t mind – there was plenty of suitable land around the ranch.

  Dusty smiled and let his eyes drift closed.

  Chapter Three

  April 12, 1869

  Missoula, Montana Territory

  Dearest Genny,

  How are you? How is the homesteading life? I hope you are well. I received your letter and was so glad to hear from you. I wasn’t sure you’d remember me, but it seems you do. My fondest memory of playing together in our youth was that time you gave me your doll to play with. You cared deeply for that doll and you shared her so willingly. I never forgot that kindness.

  Things here are fine, I suppose, but I’ve had the most miserable day. First there is the matter of the school superintendent, Mr. Figway, who watches me constantly. He pulls me up for every perceived infraction, and today was the worst of all. I am certain he won’t r
ecommend the school board renew my contract. What will I do then?

  To make matters worse, after I trudged all the way home through the hot and dusty streets, I found Harris Wishart in my room again! He’s not supposed to be in here and yet I find him here more often than seems reasonable. I’ve mentioned it repeatedly to his mother, but she just laughs and tells me not to mind him, he’s just curious. Well, curious or not, I’d rather not find the teenage son of my landlord in my room at all. I told him he’d better stay out or I’d have something to say to his father, but he just stared at me in that unnerving way he does and walked away without so much as an apology. His behavior truly concerns me, but I’m not sure what to do about it.

  I suppose I should find another place to live, but where could I find one that fits within my measly budget? Oh, dear, what a bind I’m in. I don’t know if I’ll have a job at summer’s end, so I may not even be able to afford this place. I know I should speak to Mr. Wishart, but I find that when I see him, the words just stick in my throat. I have so much to say, yet for some reason I can’t seem to say it. Does that ever happen to you? No, of course not. If I remember rightly, you never had any trouble telling people exactly what you thought. I wish I could, but I never want to displease them, even when they’re treating me despicably.

  I sometimes wonder what’s to become of me if I stay here. Perhaps I should go back home to Boston. I don’t have much family left there other than Aunt Priscilla, though I know she’d be glad to see me. Uncle Harold and Aunt Eunice still live nearby, but he is so busy working at the factory and Aunt Priscilla says his lungs aren’t what they used to be. Aunt Eunice, it seems, works from dawn to dusk sewing for a Mrs. Holland, and she told Aunt Priscilla she could probably get me a position there as well if I was to return. Do you think I should?