Broken Spurs

by BJ James

  The brow arched again. “Just like that.”

  “You’re joking.”

  “I don’t joke about horses or dishes, Benedict.” He kept a bland expression on his face.

  “Serious business, huh?”

  “Very.”

  Not sure what to make of this new attitude, Hank decided not to question it. Flipping the latch, she stepped to the porch and into twilight. As the door closed, she was glancing over her shoulder, watching him curiously.

  Steve was smiling as he cleared the table, his first real smile in days. There was more than one way to skin a cat, he decided. Or, better yet, more than one way to to catch a foxy lady.

  At the sink, as he washed and rinsed their meager dishes, through a window that afforded a perfect view, he watched her work, completely, skillfully, wonderfully as one with the horse.

  Beautiful.

  “Now,” he muttered under his breath, the brief and rare smile forgotten. “All I have to do is make sure I don’t get caught.”

  “Ho! Ho! Good girl.” Hank leaned forward in the saddle, raked her hand down the mare’s bowed neck, petting and stroking her until she settled down. “Good girl. Easy does it.”

  Steve watched from the fence, so engrossed in the woman and the horse and the intricate move they were practicing, he forgot to feel like excess baggage. After days of watching, he knew this low, comforting monotone by heart. The same familiar words chanted endlessly, until the bewildered animal began to understand what it was she asked of it, and understood approval. For this reason, Steve, knew the guiding hand would be firm, the signals clear, but the breathy song would never be sharp or impatient. This rider would never ask more of the horse than it was ready to give.

  A second maneuver was not added until the first was accomplished with relative comfort that became second nature. As natural for the horse as the switch of its tail.

  Then, and only then, the new exercise would be introduced, the same patient method employed. When the horse was ready, the two were integrated. Hours of more practice followed, until the horse responded to knee and hand signals, segueing from one task into another, quickly and competently.

  When she was completely satisfied the horse was ready, she introduced it to yet another technique. And the patiently repetitive routine began all over again.

  He’d watched her, admiration and approval grudging at first. Now he simply enjoyed.

  “Good girl!” A pat accompanied the approval. “That’s it.”

  The lilting praise marked the end of the morning’s session, and Steve found himself waiting for the moment Hank Benedict would swing from the saddle, turning to him as she slipped her gloves from her hands. He didn’t realize that he stood with his breath caught in his throat as he waited for her smile.

  “This one’s a lady, and she’s going to be something.” Hank tossed the words over her shoulder as she dismounted. Standing by the horse, she kept her back to him, one hand resting on the pommel of the saddle, the other stroking and petting. “One of the best.”

  “Yes,” Steve muttered, his attention focused on the woman. With her head barely level with the saddle, and her braid tumbling down her back, she seemed far too small and fragile to hold such complete command over a creature nearly ten times her size and strength. Yet when she turned, worn jeans clinging to narrow hips and booted heels buried firmly in the dust, a look of sheer joy on her face, he knew size and strength were the least of it.

  “Good morning.” She offered the belated greeting with the smile for which he’d waited.

  “Good morning,” he responded.

  And it was.

  Looping the reins over the saddle, Hank left the horse to rest as she approached the fence. “How are you?”

  “Better. I managed to put on my pants this morning without cussing once.”

  Hank laughed. A low, deep chuckle that made him think again of blues and smoke and silver eyes.

  “That’s progress, more than I expected.” A hint of mischief glinted from the shade of the brim of her Stetson. “The part about the language I mean. But,” she sighed in mock regret and touched his arm briefly, “give me time, and I’ll do something that will set you off.”

  She was teasing. They hadn’t quarreled in days. Their war had slowly evolved into an armed truce, the truce to conditional acceptance, and that to harmony that sprang from respect.

  He did respect her, for her skill and dedication. No one could watch her work, or listen to her as she went about her chores...his chores...and not respect her. Each day it became more difficult to hold an unswerving belief in her complicity with the Lawters.

  “You started early today.” He’d heard her drive in as first light played over the eastern rim of the canyon.

  In the beginning, when his injuries were still rawly painful, she stayed over. Spreading her bedroll on the floor each night, she curled on her side and drifted off as easily as if his cabin were a line shack and he just another of the many cowhands she’d slept beside in the common occurrences of running a ranch. As he improved in body and became more irascible in spirit, she declared him well on the road to recovery. Citing his restlessness and ill temper as proof that what he suffered from most seriously was a flaming case of male ego, she returned to her own ranch, to her own bed.

  From that day, she never stayed over again. Instead, she came to the Broken Spur early each day, and left late. And not even the promise of a wing footed stallion standing at stud would have made him admit that he missed her. He would not admit that the small house was suddenly a rambling hall, and the nights were long and too quiet. Nor that when morning came, as he gulped the first coffee of the day alone, walls that seemed too distant in the darkness began to shrink, closing in on him.

  Trapped by four walls and the vagaries of his own mind, he caught himself inhaling the remembered scent of roses, wishing he could turn thought to reality and she would be there. It was then he called himself forty kinds of fool, and tried to resurrect his suspicions.

  It became her habit to drive when she came so early. It was her habit, as well, to cut the engine, letting the range scarred, stripped down army jeep that was nearly as adept as Black Jack in going where it shouldn’t rattle to as quiet a halt as it could. He knew she hoped she wouldn’t disturb him.

  She never succeeded, and he never told her that she hadn’t.

  “The mare did so well yesterday, I was eager to put her through her paces this morning.” Resting a booted foot on a rail and pushing back her hat, she looked at him over the top of the corral, letting her scrutiny rove over his face, taking in every detail. “How are you, really?”

  “I won’t be turning cartwheels for a while, but I’m fine, Benedict. Recovering right on schedule.”

  His schedule, maybe, but rapid for mere man. Yet today there was something different about him. A frown gathered, her head cocked, as if the angle gave her a truer perspective. “You seem tired. Better, yes, but tired.”

  “Restless night,” he admitted, without considering his answer.

  Hank was instantly alarmed, grasping his arm as if she probed for fever or telegraphed pain. “What’s wrong?” It took all her effort not to brush back his hat, to stroke his forehead, to judge and answer for herself.

  “Hey.” Steve covered her hand with his. “Slow down. A restless night means exactly that. A restless night—no more. If you want the truth, I think it’s cabin fever, or maybe canyon fever would be a better analogy.”

  He decided that was a fair description of his mood. Cabin fever, from the walls that closed in when she was not with him. Canyon fever, from the inactivity the Lawters had forced upon him.

  “A good day’s work,” he said with emphasis, “and I’d sleep like a baby.”

  “You’re sure? That’s all it is?”

  “Positive.”

  “Then maybe we should do something about it.” She moved beyond reach, but the subtle awareness of all that he was remained with her. “What would you say to a ri
de? The mare is ready to be put through her paces outside the corral, and that’s our agenda for the day. We’re going to take it slow, no mad galloping or jumping fences. On a chance that you might consider accompanying us, I spoke to Dr. Bonner last night. He gives the green light, so long as you’re careful.” She was suddenly flustered. “That is, if you’d like to go. If you want to go.”

  “Maybe.” It was his turn to tease, for a ride was exactly what he needed. Even one taken at a sedate pace.

  “Have you had breakfast?”

  “Just coffee.”

  “Good, then you’re in for a treat. In case I had to tempt you into the saddle, Bonita made up a thermos of her coffee and a fresh batch of bear sign. If I know her, there will be a few other delicacies in the basket, as well.”

  “Stew and fry bread?” he ventured.

  “Possibly.” She smiled at the sly reference to her meager culinary expertise. “But not likely. Jake’s a meat and potatoes man, and so is Sandy. When she gets a crack at someone new, Bonnie likes to show off a little. About the only thing I can guarantee we won’t have is baked Alaska.”

  “Because of the heat.” Steve suggested the obvious.

  Hank shook her head, her smile becoming a grin. “Because it goes to waste when there’s Bonnie’s best bear sign.”

  “Ahh, of course, Bonnie’s Best Bear Sign. Sounds like something out of one of the old dime novels, with cowboys riding miles and fighting duels over a can of peaches and a handful of sign.” The sugary concoction, somewhat like the modern day doughnut, was truly legend in the old West. One that lived on.

  “Wouldn’t be unheard of even today. When you try one, you’ll see.” With laughter trailing behind her, Hank returned to the mare. Checking the cinch, she drew it tighter, readying for the rougher terrain ahead. “I’ll saddle Blue Belle, and get the basket,” she said with more composure than was true. “When you’re ready, we’ll go.”

  The trail she chose was an easy one if ridden wisely, and one she’d ridden often as a child. Over the years it had been overgrown by scrub, narrowing to a one horse path. The terrain was uneven, but with no insurmountable ground. The mare, who had no official name yet, moved with an effortlessness that promised great things.

  Hank guided her around a fallen rock that seemed to have no immediate point of origin, then urged her over a clutter of detritus and was doubly gratified when she took the crossing as well as solid ground.

  “Good girl.” Hank petted the mare before she looked back at Steve. “You have the makings of an excellent mountain horse in this one. She walks like her sire or dam might have been part mountain goat.”

  “Sorry, all horse. Both of them.” Steve fell silent again as he jogged along in her back trail, too contented to enter into discussion. She’d guided him to a part of the canyon he’d had time to afford only cursory exploration. Repairs to the house and stables, and then the fencing had filled his days, leaving time for little else.

  “A good mountain horse would bring a tidy sum. Especially one as good as this. Other than Black Jack, I’ve never seen a horse that showed such early promise.” She led the mare through an intricate turn, then, with a tap of her knees and a cluck of her tongue, urged the animal up a narrow incline. At the top of a rise she stopped, waiting for Steve and Blue Belle to catch up.

  When he drew along side her, she turned her attention from the floor of the canyon, waiting for him to speak, to make some comment about the land, the ride, or surefooted horses. Yet he didn’t seem to feel the need for comment or conversation. In fact, he was so self-involved and caught up in his own thoughts, she wondered if he’d heard the last at all. Indeed, was he even minimally aware she was at his side?

  She’d entertained high hopes for the ride. That it would cheer him and appease his restlessness, and lead the way to laying the last of his doubts to rest. Now she had to admit she’d accomplished the opposite, as he sank deeper into thought.

  “She needs a name.” To assure that he attended her, Hank touched his shoulder, brushing blue-black hair in dire need of cutting. The contact left her fingertips tingling and her throat dry. Resentfully she wondered why he must have that effect on her, when he scarcely knew she was in the world. “The horse,” she explained, and wondered why. “One as good as she needs to be called something other than girl, or horse.”

  “Why?” he asked flatly.

  “Because she’s a fine animal, and when I finish with her training, she’ll be a fine cow horse,” Hank said in a low voice, her eyes molten silver, her thigh skimming along his as Blue Belle tossed her head and stamped her feet impatiently. “Better than fine,” she snapped as a current of unexpected longing for things she couldn’t have, and wouldn’t admit she wanted, rocketed through her. “Damn fine! Dammit!”

  A spur to the mare’s side set the animal into a rocking gallop. Dust spurted from her hooves like umber smoke as Hank rode deep in the saddle, one wanting to run as much as the other. As the trail descended sharply, twisting and turning, brush thickened, thriving in the protective shade of canyon walls. And with the difficulty, her anger, hasty but short-lived, abated.

  In only a little time, she was sawing on the reins, pulling the reluctant mare to a halt. The trail at this point was too narrow to turn. Resting her hand on her thigh, the thigh that had brushed his, she shifted in the saddle to look back.

  The trail was deserted. He wasn’t there.

  Panic played like a trip-hammer on her nerves, her throat convulsed. Visions of Steve sprawled in some crazy twist of the trail danced in macabre vignettes before her eyes. Deep in the horrors guilt heaped upon her, she hardly believed what she saw as he rounded one last turn, horse and rider plodding along.

  Relief flowed through her like wine, sweet and intoxicating. She wanted to apologize, but there was too much between them for mere apology. Too much and too little...Too much anger and distrust. Too little understanding and forgiveness.

  Hank waited, watching though bleak eyes as he kept Belle at a safe, deliberate pace, and his wandering gaze on the land around him. When he drew closer, with a flick of her reins she urged her mount into a walk as deliberate.

  The remainder of the ride was as uneventful as silent. Under a dome of blue sky, they wound their way through mesquite and patches of golden grass. The stunted oaks the trail bypassed grew fewer, giving way to cottonwoods as the path grew wider and far more worn, suggesting the approach of a riparian habitat. In the dusty hush, the steady, muffled clop of shod horses was only amplified by the whistle of a kingbird catching an insect on the wing. Far above, from an unchanging sky, the hunting cry of a hawk rained down as it wheeled and soared, riding an invisible tide.

  Once, a cat too large to be a pet gone wild loped across their path so swiftly the horses had no time to do more than balk and whicker nervously.

  “Jaguarundi!” Hank called out, just loudly enough to be heard. “They range out of Mexico, but only rarely. It might be years before you see another. Or never.”

  Steve made a note to watch the horses closer. Like Hank, he thought the cat’s appearance was a rare happening, and likely no threat to the stock, but it behooved a rancher to be always cautious.

  A last gooseneck turn threaded through a pass so narrow his knees brushed before the rugged walls opened to a small jeweled vista. The hush of the trail became the music of the faint tumble of water, and the jaguarundi was forgotten.

  She had led him to a secret place he would have been a long time discovering. An arroyo more than a canyon. A place where few people had ever been, and only one in a long while.

  “This is where you came when you rode across the range.” In his mind he saw a child, hair wild and flying, riding as only she could.

  “Charlie brought me here when I was very young. He said it was my place, a haven to come to when—” Breaking off, she shook her head.

  “When things got too rough at the ranch,” he finished for her.

  “Then,” she admitted. “And other times.”
She didn’t ask what more he knew of her life than she and Charlie had told him. She didn’t ask how. Silverton was a small town. Its gossips weren’t always accurate, but they were always busy, and a new ear was an exciting challenge. “I don’t come here much anymore.”

  Dismounting as she did, sensing the shift of her mood, Steve said nothing as he took the reins from her, looping them together over the limb of a cottonwood. Giving her the privacy of the moment, he moved away. His critical inspection ranged over the unexpected ciénega. Though it was scarcely a true marshland, the Spanish name seemed to fit.

  The arroyo was a tiny world painted in varying intensities and hues of every color of the spectrum. There was the yellow of the sun, the reds of the land blending to browns. Blues, beginning clear and pristine in the perfect sky of a perfect day, descended to shades of purple in cloistered shadows, and blue-black in a small reflecting pool. And all of it dressed in green, rich and light and dark. A gift of the earth and the sky.

  Steve had never wanted to paint, had never even thought to covet that talent. But now he understood the driving force behind it, the joy of sharing.

  As he looked to the woman who had lived in his thoughts and his dreams for weeks, he understood even more. Savannah Henrietta Benedict was many things. A woman of strength and substance with threads of compassion and honor running deep in the fabric of her being.

  She was Jake Benedict’s surrogate son, Camilla Benedict’s daughter and her own woman in one. And neither would ever compromise the principles that guided her.

  Drawing a shuddering breath, Steve closed his eyes, his fists clenched, then unclenched, as something inside him cast off its painful bindings, soaring like the hawk, exhilarated and unshackled.

  “Savannah,” he murmured when he could breathe again. “The lady. My lady.”

  When he opened his eyes, the sun was brighter, the sky bluer. In the whisper of trickling water and the rustle of leaves there was respite.

  Crossing the clearing to the small bright patch where she knelt, laying out the banquet prepared by the venerable Bonita, he caught her arm. Bringing her to her feet, he drew her to him, holding her in the circle of his embrace.