by Ana Morgan
“It’s okay, Brownie,” Stormy shouted. “He wants to be a ranch hand.”
Brownie’s scowl turned into a wide grin. “Ranch hand? Why didn’t you say so in the first place? Hurry in, stranger. The gravy’s gettin’ cold.”
Napoleon bounded forward and licked Blade’s hand like an overgrown puppy.
Blade shooed Belinda into the corral. As Stormy swung the gate shut, he fished in his back pocket for his bandanna. Two days earlier, he’d washed the cloth in a creek and dried it on a rock he’d set close to his campfire. It was stiff, but clean.
He pretended to brush a bug off her shoulder. “Put this on. That way, no one will see the marks on your neck.”
The color drained from her cheeks. Turning her back toward the house, she held the blue cloth by opposing corners and spun it into a two-inch wide tube.
“Our secret,” he promised.
~ ~ ~
Stormy could have danced around the dining table wearing nothing but a skirt of peacock feathers. No one asked why she was late or why she’d tied an unfamiliar bandanna around her neck. Blade was the center of attention.
Zed pumped his hand while Running Bear set a place at the table. Brownie heaped a plate with fried potatoes and sliced meat, and told him to ‘say when’ as he poured brown gravy. They bombarded him with questions about where he hailed from and what brought him to these parts.
While she ate, she studied him. He kept his napkin in his lap like Zed, not tucked in his shirt like Brownie. He split his biscuits with a knife instead of pulling them apart with his fingers. He had a raised, white scar on the soft side of his forearm that disappeared under his rolled-up cuff. She’d spotted it when he reached for the butter bowl.
“You grew up in St. Louis,” Zed said. “There’s lots to do in a big city.”
“Not if your dream is to become an explorer like Lewis or Clark,” Blade replied.
“What did your family think of that?”
“Well, sir, let’s just say they were less than enthusiastic. Two days after my seventeenth birthday, I ran away from home and talked my way onto a steamer carrying freight up the Missouri River. The Nimrod hauled everything from lumber and grain to horses and tools. Lots of dry goods and liquor, and of course, mail. I was a roustabout, a rat.”
Blade chewed and swallowed another forkful of meat before continuing. “Captain LaBarge expected his rats to move cargo fast. Ideally, we would tie up to a dock. But, if the dock was busy, he’d make us walk a plank between the deck and the shore. I fell in once, and LaBarge docked my pay. I never let that happen again.”
Zed nodded enthusiastically. “Good man.”
Stormy couldn’t tell if Zed was applauding the captain or their new ranch hand, but she didn’t care. The worry lines in Zed’s forehead had softened, and his color was the best she’d seen in weeks. If he started recounting war stories, and Blade listened, she’d know her decision to invite Blade was a good one.
“After five years,” Blade continued, “I went home. I was too big for a beating, so my father did the next best thing. He gave me a job.”
Her men laughed.
“I hated working indoors, pushing a pencil and breathing stale city air, but I was trying to be a dutiful son. I stuck it out for a year. When I couldn’t take it anymore, I hitched a ride on a mail stage to Kansas and found work on the ranch where I got Belinda.” He went to the kitchen, returned with the coffeepot, and offered refills. “You have a beautiful place here.”
“We have Running Bear to thank for that,” Zed said. “Brownie and I met him at Fort Sisseton in ’64. Our orders were to provide a steady supply of meat for the garrisons who protected the railroad while it was being built, and for the settlers who homesteaded.”
Blade set the coffee pot on the table. “I heard the army is paying less and expecting more.”
Zed tipped his balding pate from side to side, his usual noncommittal headshake. “A contract is better than speculation. You know what you have to do and what you will earn.”
“We should talk about the fence,” Stormy interrupted.
Brownie sipped his coffee. “I want to hear more about working on the river.”
“Are you sure?” Blade asked. He caught her eye and smiled in a way that spoke to her. Somehow, she knew he wanted to hear about the fence, but one more story might be good.
Her heart fluttered at this unexpected intimacy.
Embarrassed, she jumped to her feet, stacked the dirty dishes, and carried them into the kitchen. The wood stove still radiated warmth from Running Bear’s morning baking. A thread of steam seeped from a pot of brown beans, simmering on a back burner.
She set the dishes in the sink and tiptoed back close to the doorway.
“All along the Missouri, riverbanks give way,” Blade said. “Whole trees fall in and sink under the water, where they wait to snag steamers in their branches. My job as a rat was to get LaBarge’s freighter unstuck without drowning or getting hit by the wheel.”
Stormy stepped back into the room and snorted derisively. Trees had roots that anchored them in the ground. They did not regularly fall into rivers.
“You don’t believe me?” Blade leaned back in his chair. “Mark Twain said the most variable things in Creation are the actions of a jury, the condition of the Missouri, and the state of a woman’s mind.”
Hooting with laughter, Running Bear slapped Blade on the back and pointed at her. Brownie’s chortle sounded like the cry of a lost goose.
Stormy bristled. Her mind wasn’t variable. She knew exactly what she had to do: build a fence, fatten the cattle, pay off the loan, and save the ranch. She had half a mind to tell Blade Masters the deal was off.
Zed finished chuckling. “Blade, did Stormy explain what we’re up against?”
“Oh, Zed,” she said, sugar-sweetly. “Mr. Masters is a doer, not a talker. He’ll learn best on the job.”
Chapter 3
That afternoon, as instructed, Blade guided the Hawkins’ team and wagonload of fence posts onto Widow Butler’s land. Brownie, Running Bear, and Stormy had gone on ahead. Their tracks were easy to follow.
A sheet of high, thin clouds filtered the sunlight, and a pleasant breeze cooled his cheeks. To his right, the prairie sloped toward a broad slough edged with young cattails and rushes. Ducks paddled in the placid blue water, and colorful songbirds flitted between the branches of nearby ash and box elder trees.
It wasn’t hard to imagine a grand rustic lodge on the high ground. With a live-in wait staff, the lodge could be rented by the fortnight to elites of Society. With the proper promotion—‘Shoot a pheasant for your Thanksgiving dinner. Stargaze on your honeymoon.’—every penny of the start-up investment could be recouped easily within thirty-six months.
His mind raced. A man in failing health, like Zed Hawkins, would look favorably upon an offer that affirmed the value of his life’s hard work. He’d also want to settle his affairs in a way that provided for his daughter. Running Bear and Brownie, too.
The wagon bumped over an uneven patch of ground. His load bounced and crashed ominously.
Berating himself for daydreaming, Blade turned to check that the posts were still secure. He’d made a good first impression. He didn’t want to undo it.
And, he had to stop thinking like an investment banker. He was a rancher now. A rancher who would soon have his own spread.
Up ahead, Brownie raised his arms and waved like a train conductor.
Blade pulled alongside. Stormy had ridden Belinda out to work, and his mare blew an ‘all’s-well-but-I’m-sure-glad-to-see-you’ greeting.
He stood, intending to hop off and do some real work.
“Stay put,” Stormy ordered. She clambered onto the wagon and pushed off a post. “Pull forward.”
He
sat back down and tapped the reins on Antony and Cleopatra’s broad, brown backs. The team and wagon moved forward.
Running Bear picked up the post, carried it to a hole, and dropped it in. Kneeling with a short-handled shovel in hand, Brownie pushed and packed dirt into the hole until the post stood on its own. He stood and gave a final, few stomps with the heel of his boot. Stormy shoved off another post.
Their teamwork was smooth and efficient, but Blade wanted to learn every step. When he had his ranch, he’d do everything by himself.
~ ~ ~
Stormy raised her hands in frustration as Blade stomped around and around the base of his first set-in post like a crazed flamenco dancer.
Finally, he stepped back. “One down. How many to go?”
“Fifteen. Before sundown,” she said caustically. “If you want supper, you’ll have to work faster.”
He crooked his arm around the post she’d just hauled over and, standing close, took control of its weight. His broad shoulders blocked half of the sky. “Doesn’t that break the all-you-can-eat promise?”
The warmth in his bonbon eyes made her diaphragm flutter. Annoyed, she stepped back until she was able to draw a normal breath. “This affects me, too, buster. Quit wasting time.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He upended the post, slid it into place, and started to pack dirt. A lock of his long hair slipped free of its leather binding and danced on his shoulder. His denims hugged his hips, and his sweat-soaked shirt clung to his back, revealing contours the great Michelangelo might have wanted to sculpt.
After four more posts, he whistled for his mare. “I need a drink.”
Stormy was more than ready, but she’d waited for him to suggest the break. She needed him to believe she could outwork him.
When Belinda trotted up, he unslung two canteens.
Stormy pulled out the stopper on hers, took a long drink, and drenched her neck. Her body temperature cooled as water soaked the shoulders of her work shirt. After one more gulp, she popped the stopper back in with a slap of her palm. “Want to switch jobs?”
Blade didn’t answer. His gaze was fixed on her chest.
She looked down. Her wet shirt clung to her breasts, and her nipples stuck out like ripe berries.
Brownie, Running Bear, and Zed never fussed about her body parts or attempted to hide theirs. Had Blade grown up in a prudish family?
She had a wicked idea. Still holding her canteen, she stretched out her arms behind her back and rolled her shoulders.
Blade stood like a man bewitched, his lips parted, his expression blank.
What would he do if she undid her top button and reached for the one below that? She swung her hands forward, raised one toward her collar.
“Don’t forget the fence.” Running Bear’s shout was followed by a whooping laugh.
The canteen slipped from her hand and crashed onto her foot. She whirled around and saw Running Bear on the rise.
“I’m going home to fix supper,” he hollered. “Don’t be late.”
Avoiding Blade’s eyes, she snatched up her canteen and hung it over Belinda’s saddle horn. “You carry. I’ll pack.”
~ ~ ~
Someone shook Blade’s shoulder.
“Mornin’.” Brownie peered down at him like a grizzled miner assessing a glint in an embedded rock. “Cakes are on the stove. Team’s hitched to the wagon.”
Blade saluted with two fingers. It was too early to talk.
He’d slept soundly. The house didn’t creak, his pillow was plump with feathers, and the horse hair mattress was so long, his feet didn’t hang over the end. He stood and tugged on the over-sized quilt until his bed looked maid-made.
Carrying his boots, he descended the staircase. The sun was almost up, and he was hungry.
Running Bear greeted him by raising his cup.
The coffee in the big pot on the cook stove was black and strong, boiled with eggshells to cut the bitterness, just the way Blade liked it. He piled a plate with golden flapjacks and scrambled eggs and carried his breakfast to the eating table.
He was half done when Stormy clomped down the stairs. Neat, tight braids dangled behind her ears, and blue ovals patched the elbows of her checkered men’s shirt. Her shirt tail was tucked snugly in her denims.
She acknowledged him with a nod, dropped her work gloves, hat, and a thick, leather-bound book on the table, and disappeared into the kitchen. After some clanging, she returned carrying a glass of milk and a stack of cakes on a shiny tin plate. She sat and slathered her cakes with butter and jam. Then, she opened her book to a page marked with a small, brown grouse feather and started to eat.
She was such a contrast to his ex-fiancée. Candy refused to get out of bed before noon and insisted upon painting her face before she’d let him kiss her.
Stormy turned a page in her book and laughed. Blade was tempted to ask what she was reading, but decided against it. This family clearly respected private time in the morning, and he liked that.
When he was growing up, mornings were a flurry of hovering servants and barked orders. During the day, his father concentrated on amassing a fortune while his mother scaled the heights of St. Louis Society. He and his brother had battled fiercely for their limited attention.
His father had encouraged the rivalry, claiming it was good training for investment banking. His baby sister, Mary, had watched everything from the safety of her highchair or the protective arms of her nurse. He missed Mary the most.
Blade dowsed his memories with the remains of his coffee. The past was history, and he was on the cusp of his future. He set his dishes in the kitchen sink, picked up his hat, and walked outside. This was the life he wanted—cozy home, big sky, honest work.
Honest. He couldn’t be honest with the Hawkins clan until he discovered their unfulfilled dreams and wove them into a deal that would make everyone happy. He’d done it dozens of times before, but this was the last time he’d have to walk the fine line between charade and truth. Everything was going to work out fine.
He drew a slow, steadying breath and strode toward the corral.
Brownie lumbered out of the barn carrying a tin pail of milk. “You got the list, Blade? You remember where to meet up on the way back?”
Blade climbed onto the buckboard’s seat, reached into his hat, and pulled out the folded list of supplies that Zed had written last night. “I’ll find you.”
“Tie the posts good so they don’t bounce out. Follow the tracks when you’re coming back. Hazards are hard to see in the grass this time of year. You don’t want to break an axle.”
“All right.” Blade picked up the reins. “I was wondering who named the horses.”
“Zed likes names from Shakespeare. Stormy picked Odin and Thor. You heard of the Norse gods?”
“I have.”
“Well, I’ll be.” Brownie’s scraggly whiskers split into a broken-toothed smile. “You’re fittin’ in just fine.” He headed toward the house.
Stormy darted outside. “Where do you think you’re going?” she shouted.
Brownie snagged her arm and held on despite her attempts to shake free. “We worked it all out last night after you went up to bed. Blade needs to fetch his things. He’ll pick up supplies and check the mail.” Brownie raised his voice even louder. “Move along now, Blade. See you when you git back.”
Chapter 4
Blade carried his saddlebags down the hotel stairs with silent relief. His money stash was still rolled up in the toe of his sock.
“You didn’t come back.” Ginny stood stiffly behind her counter. “You find someplace better?”
He ambled closer, certain she was more concerned about a refund than being stood up for coffee and conversation. “Time got away from me, and I camped at the Hawkins place.”
> She pursed her painted lips. “You chose the ground over a warm bed?”
“Like I said, time got away from me.” He smiled as he leaned forward and lowered his voice. “About the room. I like to keep my options open. Would you keep my dollars on deposit? That way I’ll have a room if I need one.”
Relief flooded her face. “Sure thing.”
He dug the room key out of his vest pocket and set in on the counter.
“Mr. Masters, did you see Zed Hawkins? How’s he doing?”
“That’s why I didn’t make it back. Zed wouldn’t stop talking.” He walked toward the door.
“If you see him again, tell him . . .” Her voice broke ever so slightly. “Tell him I hope to see him soon.”
He turned and touched his fingers to the brim of his hat. “I’ll tell him. I’m sure he’ll be pleased.”
“Watch out for his daughter,” she called. “She’s got the devil’s temper.”
“I’ll be careful.”
He steered the wagon to the back of the store that sold lumber and feed. After setting the brake, he jumped down and weaved around neat stacks of lumber until he located a pile of eight-foot fence posts flagged with a placard that read ‘Hawkins. Paid.’ He estimated fifty posts, by length and height.
A short man wearing bib overalls and a leather cap stepped from the store. His bare, tanned arms bulged with muscles. “Can I help you?”
“I’m supposed to pick up posts for the Hawkins Ranch.”
The man peered up at him for an unreasonably long time. “You’re the feller who got slapped by Stormy Hawkins. You chased after her, too. I hope you gave her a good piece of your mind.”
Blade hid his groan by coughing. News traveled fast in a small town.
The man grabbed his hand and squeezed as he shook it. “Zed Hawkins is a good man, but he should’ve taught her some manners.”
Blade freed his hand and slid a fence post onto the wagon. “I honestly can’t say, Mr. . . .”