by Arlene James
He negated that worry by yanking open the door himself. And there he stood, a harried look on his face, his smoky brown hair tousled, a clipboard braced against one hip, a pencil sticking out of his mustache. He plucked the pencil out of his mouth as if it were a cigarette. “Oh. Hi. Want some coffee? Angelina just dropped off a pot.” He glanced over his shoulder and added wryly, “And enough sweet rolls to feed a whole crew, which, incidentally, ought to be our first order of business. A crew, that is.” He seemed to realize just then that he was still blocking the doorway and hopped back. “Oh. Come on in.”
She slipped inside, still too nervous to look him in the eye and murmured, “Coffee sounds good.”
He got busy in front of one of the filing cabinets. Waving a hand negligently, he said, “Help yourself.” A second or two later he added, “Rolls are good—if you haven’t had your breakfast.”
“I haven’t,” she confirmed, helping herself to a mug of brew and a fat, golden brown roll dripping with white icing. Angelina had thoughtfully supplied napkins to go along with the treats but no plates or flatware. Kara held the roll gingerly in one hand and the coffee mug in the other, then carefully positioned herself on one of a pair of scarred wood kitchen chairs that Plummer had appropriated years earlier and parked in front of his desk.
Rye slammed closed the drawer of the file cabinet as if warning her that he was about to join her, which he did, pulling out the other chair and straddling it. He dropped the clipboard onto the desk and slid it toward her with the tip of one finger. “Okay. Top page there, that’s the crew I’ve put together so far. First name, that’s Borden Harris. You probably know him. He’s...was your grandfather’s wrangler—and our first volunteer. Most of the other hands on the place left soon after Plummer... soon after his passing. Can’t blame ’em. They’re working men, gotta have that regular paycheck, and word came that there was steady work up in Montana.”
“Why didn’t you go?” The question just sort of slipped out between the sweet roll and the coffee.
He shot her a disgruntled look, a muscle working in the hollow of his jaw, and after some delay said, “I promised Plummer.” He pointed at the second name. “Now George Marshal, he’s—”
“Because of the trail drive,” she said, wanting it perfectly clear.
He didn’t look at her or move his finger. “Yeah. Now. George is a friend of mine from my rodeo days.”
She had to bite her tongue to keep from saying, “I didn’t know you rodeoed.” Instead she said, “I assume he knows his way around a cow.”
“Absolutely.” He half rose from his chair, reached across the desk and poured himself a cup of coffee, talking all the while. “George is a fine hand with a rope. He’ll be a lot of help. But beggars can’t exactly be choosers, and since we’re not paying, we definitely fall into that category.” He sipped from his cup and pointed to another name. “Pogo Smith is a rancher, about fifty-five, a good working cowboy.” He paused, and his gaze fell on the plate of rolls. Kara pushed it closer and peered once more at the clipboard.
“Who’s this Dean Schuster?”
He reached for the roll and bit off a chunk of it, gulping it down with hardly a chew. “Another friend of mine. He’s no great shakes as a cowboy, frankly, but he can sit a saddle all day without falling out of it, and he has an asset nobody else I know has.”
“Really? What’s that?”
“A motor home. I figure it’s as close to a modern day chuck wagon as we’re gonna get. And for the record—I checked this out with Plummer and the attorney, too—we’re allowed to use whatever modern equivalents we want, so long as we don’t load up those beeves and ship, fly or float ’em to New Mexico.”
“Then so long as the cows walk, we’re in compliance with the terms of the will.”
“Exactly.”
“Hmm.” She licked icing from her fingers and took a drink of the strong black coffee. “Okay, that’s four, six counting you and me.”
“Seven, counting Kanaka.”
“Who?”
“Everybody calls him Shoes. That’s not his real name. His real name means something like ‘life-giving waters,’ but since he’s a farrier—”
“He shoes the horses, hence Shoes.”
“Right. He’ll keep our horses shod and our tack in good shape, plus a hundred other little things I don’t even want to think about, and he’s an able cowboy.”
“A good man to have along.”
He set his cup on the desk, and for the first time actually looked her straight in the eye. “You’re not taking issue with a single one of them. That makes things a lot easier than I expected. Thanks.”
She lifted an eyebrow. “You expected a fight?”
“Frankly, yes.”
She shook her head. “I have a practical mind, Wagner, and like you said, beggars can’t be choosers. I’d sign off on a crew of circus clowns right now, provided they could ride facing forward. Now, what else have you got?”
He munched his sweet roll thoughtfully. “I’ve made a list of supplies.”
“So have I.” She plunked her coffee cup down and dug a folded sheet of paper from her shirt pocket, saying as she unfolded it, “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”
He gagged on a piece of roll, got it down, coughed to clear his throat and reached for his coffee cup. Kara cocked her head worriedly.
“You okay?”
“Fine,” he croaked. “Uh, what’s o-on the list isn’t as i-important, really, as where we’re going to get it.”
“I’ve been thinking about that,” she admitted. “Grandpa made it plain that Grandma wasn’t to give me money.”
“I don’t think he was worried about that, actually, but never mind. I think I know where you’re going. Meryl can’t give you money, but nothing was said about supplies.”
“My point exactly.”
“This place has a fully stocked pantry,” he said, “and with the hands all gone...”
“I’ll bet she’ll thank us to get it off her hands.”
“One problem. Those supplies could be construed as assets of the business, and old Pain-in-the—er, Payne would be perfectly within his rights to refuse them to us.”
“Payne wouldn’t do that,” she said definitely.
“You don’t think so?”
“Of course not. And he’s not a pain in the anything. He’s been more than decent about this whole crazy thing.”
Rye didn’t try to mask his doubtful look. “If you say so.”
“Honestly, I don’t understand your dislike of him. He hasn’t done anything to you.”
“Nope. Can we get back to work now—or are you picking another fight?”
“I’m not picking a fight!”
“Well, that’s what it looks like to me.”
“That’s stupid! Why would I want to pick a fight with you?”
“Beats me, but here you go. getting all hot around the collar.”
“I am not!”
“Oh, no? Then what’re you shouting about?”
“I’m not the only one shouting!”
A chuckle from the doorway shut them both up. Dayna again. She leaned against the doorjamb and folded her arms. “Is this a private fight or can anyone wade in?”
“We’re not fighting!” they exclaimed in unison.
Dayna fairly chortled, a hand pressed to her mouth. “No?”
Kara bit her lip and looked away. Of course they were fighting... about fighting. To her surprise, a grin wiggled across her mouth. Rye coughed. Sort of. It wasn’t convincing enough to hide his chuckles. Kara looked at him in amazement—only to find him looking at her with the same expression, and suddenly they both burst out laughing. When the moment of hilarity passed, Kara was embarrassed again. Heavens, what was it about this man that made it so hard for her to be in the same room with him? She gulped down the bottom of her coffee and trained her attention on her mother.
“Did you want something, Mom?”
“Sure di
d, sweetie. I want to give you something.”
Dayna sauntered around to the end of the desk and propped a slender hip against it. At fifty she was still a very attractive woman, still slim and fit. Her face had a few lines, but they were soft and feminine, as was the gray sifted liberally through her long blond hair. She wore her jeans and boots like they were lace and silk, a trick Kara had never learned to manage. Kara wore jeans and boots because she had to wear something, and skirts didn’t cut it on the range—and because she’d never worn much of anything else. Only rarely did she put on a dress, and then it was usually a simple, tailored costume, like the uniform she’d had to wear to wait tables. The few times she’d been forced by circumstance to wear ruffles and frills, such as the time she’d been drafted as a bridesmaid in her mother’s cousin’s wedding, she’d absolutely hated the sight of herself. But her mother could turn out in bows and rhinestones and look like she’d been born to it Kara wished, suddenly, for some of her mother’s innate femininity, which was probably the very last thing she needed to make a trail drive.
“You say you want to give me something?” Kara asked, forcing her mind back to the matter at hand. It was then that she noticed her mother was holding something behind her back. She slowly drew it out and placed it on the desk.
“I want you have this—to help with expenses.”
Kara’s jaw slowly dropped. Rye whistled and leaned closer to take a good look at the elaborate squash-blossom necklace laid out lovingly next to the desk blotter.
“Mom, you can’t want to part with that!”
“Not particularly,” Dayna admitted lightly. “But it’s the only thing I have of any real value, and I know your father would want it to go for this particular cause. He loved the place as much as you do, Kara, and he only gave me the necklace because he couldn’t think of anything else to give me at the time. I hardly ever wore it, not that I haven’t treasured it, but I’d have been as proud and happy with a collection of box tops—as you well know.”
Kara bounced a glance around the room, heading off the tears that burned at the back of her eyes, while Dayna explained to Rye.
“Once,” she said, “when Kara was a little girl, she started saving box tops for a prize. I think it was a set of walkie-talkies. Anyway, that was the year she realized that Christmas was more about gift giving than gift getting. Her father got a rock with a groove filed in it. I got the box tops.” Her voice thickened. “I still have them. We buried Law with that rock.”
Rye said quietly. “I know what you mean. My boy, Champ, likes to cut photos out of catalogs and glue them to paper. You’d think they were the real thing the way he gives them out. He says they’re promises. I have every one he ever gave me.”
“I knew you’d understand,” Dayna said. “You’ll get as much for the necklace as you possibly can, won’t you, Mr. Wagner.”
“Yes, ma’am, I surely will. And my name’s Rye or just Wagner, if you prefer.”
“Thank you, Rye. Well, I promised Angelina I’d help her turn out the beds in the bunkhouse, if you’ll excuse me.”
Rye got to his feet as she left the room. Kara couldn’t trust herself to look at him. How had he known that the best thing to do, the only way to keep from hurting her mother’s feelings, was to just accept the necklace and make it work for them as best it could? She’d known he had a son, of course, but she hadn’t thought much about what kind of father he might be, whether he could have anything in common with her own. Maybe that kind of sentimentality was something all fathers felt. But no. She knew better than that. All she had to do was to look at her uncle Smith to know that wasn’t so.
Kara got up and edged toward the door, saying, “I’d better talk to Meryl about those supplies.”
Rye nodded, walking around the desk. “We’ll meet again later.”
“After lunch?”
“Fine.”
“You, uh, you’re welcome to eat with us.”
“Thanks, but my boy will be expecting me.”
“I see. Okay. Well, later, then.”
“You bet.”
But she couldn’t quite go yet. She swallowed hard and said, “Thanks, Rye. I wasn’t quite up to handing my mother’s gift, but you were. Thanks.”
He didn’t look up from the papers he was shuffling. “Sometimes it’s easier from the outside looking in.”
“Thanks, anyway.”
He nodded. “You’re welcome.”
She left with the confusing realization that she was looking forward to coming back.
Chapter Three
Rye dropped his hat on top of the file cabinet, curly brim up. A scratch at the door sent him walking back to it. When he opened it, Kara’s dog, Oboe, sneeze-snorted, his ruffed head bobbing up and down, lifted his tail and pranced in as if he owned the place. He went straight to the corner of the desk and lay down, so that Rye would have to step over him to get to the chair.
“Well, hello, boy,” Rye said, going down on his haunches to scratch the dog’s ears. “I know a young man who would dearly love to make your acquaintance.” Oboe flopped over onto his back so Rye could scratch his belly. “Yeah, my Champ would dearly love you.”
“Why don’t you introduce them?”
He looked over his shoulder. Kara stood in the doorway. From this perspective, her long, jeaned legs seemed to go on for yards until they blossomed into nicely rounded hips. Her belt cinched in a much smaller waist, gathering in the fullness of her shirt necessary to cover the generous bosom above. Heavens. Long legs and an hourglass figure to boot, not to mention all that blond hair. He remembered the feel of it, the way it swung heavy and thick and glossy when freed. Damn. He was in trouble. He gave the dog one final, absent pat and rose to his full height.
“How was your lunch?”
“Fine. But you didn’t answer me. Why don’t you take Oboe to meet your son later?”
“All right, I will. Champ will like that. Thanks.”
“Champ, that’s his name?”
“Yeah. Speaking of names, why’d you call the dog Oboe? Seems funny, naming him after a musical instrument.”
For answer, she snapped her fingers and patted her thigh. The dog flipped up onto its feet and snapped to attention. “Speak, Oboe, speak.”
The critter tossed back its head and let loose a series of deep, mellifluous oooow-ooow-ooows as distinctive as anything Rye had ever heard.
Kara clapped her hands and said, “Good boy!” The dog snapped his jaws shut, cutting off the sound, and darted across the room for his reward, placing his front paws against Kara’s side. Laughing, she rumpled his fur roughly. “Oh, you’re such a good boy. Yes, you are.”
He made that snort of his, as if saying, “Of course!”
Rye said, “I’ve never heard anything like that, not the howl, not that sneezing thing he does.”
“Oh, he’s one of a kind, all right,” Kara replied proudly. “You should see him work cattle.”
“He’s good?”
“The best. Dad trained him, and he had a way with animals. He’ll be a help to us on the drive.”
“Glad to hear it. Listen, I’ve been meaning to mention something to you.”
Kara looked up from rubbing the dog. “What’s that?”
“I’ll be wanting my son to go along with us. He’s just a little lad, but not used to being separated for long, and when we leave here with the drive, we won’t be coming back.”
Kara snapped her fingers and pointed at the floor. The dog plopped down on his belly. She brought her hands to her waist. “If you don’t mind my asking, have you given any thought to what you’re going to do after the drive?”
He shrugged. “Guess we’ll bunk in awhile with my folks down in Durango. Something will come up. And speaking of Durango, that’s our next order of business.”
“How so?”
He moved around behind the desk and flipped open the oversize file folder there, crooking a finger at Kara. “I want you to come here and have a look at this.
” He unfolded a large, detailed map as she walked over to the front of the desk and leaned forward, craning her head around. “No, come on this side. This is important. We don’t need any misunderstandings.” Kara lightly walked around the end of the desk and stood next to him. He slid over, putting some space between them and tapped the map. “We’re here.”
“Okay.”
“Now, your grandfather mapped out a route for us. He called in a lot of favors to ensure us crossing rights and, whenever possible, holding pens, all the way south to the Utah-New Mexico border and on into Farmington, then east to the Chama Valley. I’ve broken it down into segments. Say we average fifteen miles a day—I think that’s reasonable, considering the terrain. It’ll take us twenty-two days. That’s cutting it real close in my book, considering we haven’t even started rounding up the beeves yet. And we have to cross the Navajo reservation. It’s not mountainous, as everything north of it is, but it’s dry as a bone. Water could be a real problem, not to mention the fee they’re asking for crossing rights.” To show her what he meant, he picked up a sheet of paper and pointed out a figure in Plummer’s own handwriting.
“Yow!”
“My feeling exactly,” Rye said drily.
“But do we have a choice?” Kara asked.
“Yes. And your grandfather thought of this himself.” He returned to the map. “We angle across Colorado to Durango, then head southeast through the Chako Indian reservation to New Mexico and the Chama Valley. That cuts the trip to eighteen days. And I can guarantee you a welcome rest stop just south of Durango.”
“How’s that?”
He smiled. “I just told you. My folks are there. My father and older brother ranch as fine a piece of property as you’ll ever see right there.” He stabbed the map with a forefinger.
“Sounds fine to me. So why didn’t Plummer pick the Colorado route?”
He knew she’d come to that question quickly. “One real important reason.” He pulled a letter with the envelope stapled to it from the pile of papers on the desk and handed it to her, explaining as she skimmed. “The Chakos refused him permission to cross.”