by April Hill
"Ride on, then," Claire said coldly. "I'm not interested in paying good money to a whining, spineless coward."
He grinned. "Those are mighty unkind words. A fella could get his feelings hurt. And out here, a lady could get her rump paddled for less."
"Oh, really? A man could get himself fired, too."
"I don't recall hiring on," he said pleasantly. "And I figure you might not be the most agreeable lady to work for. I never could abide bad manners—or a lack of hospitality."
Claire pointed to the gate. "If you don't wish to work for me, you may leave the way you came in."
The stranger held up one hand. "Just simmer down a little. Before I risk my whining, spineless skin, I'd like to ask a couple of questions, if it's not too much bother. Such as, do you know anything at all about cattle?"
"No, I do not. But I intend to learn, and to make this place what it was when my Grandfather ran it."
At the mention of her grandfather, the stranger raised an eyebrow. "That's a mighty tall order. The Circle P was a big outfit."
"You knew it?"
Ho nodded toward the ridge. "I grew up about ten miles from here, over that hill there. My folks worked our place for twenty years, until we hit a string of dry years. When we got down to the bone, Thacker bought us out, same as he did just about everybody else around here. That's when Pa hired on with your granddad to keep us all from going hungry. The name's Campbell. I used to hang around this very house and pull the pigtails of some whiny little runt everyone called Stump." He grinned. "She had hair about the color of yours, come to think of it."
"You're Lucas?" Claire cried, recalling a lanky, blue-eyed boy with hair the color of straw and an astonishing way with horses.
"I go by Luke now. I'm guessing that would make you 'Stump'?"
"Claire," she said, flushing. "I finally got taller."
He leaned down to touch the top of her head. "Not a whole lot. You still wouldn't make a good-sized fence post."
She shook her head sadly. "I always wanted to be six feet tall, like Grandpa. I used to stomp around in a pair of his old boots, determined to grow up to be a tall cowhand and ride a tall horse like he did. I did my best, but it seems I take after my mother."
"Your Ma was a little bit of a thing, as I recall," Campbell remembered. "Had a helluva hot temper on her. I once heard her cuss out a drunk wrangler so bad he slunk under the porch like a gun-shy hound. Stayed there 'til he sobered up, figuring she'd take after him with an iron skillet, I guess. Your Grandpa always said she'd scare the pants off Linus Thacker himself if she'd had the chance."
"She died a few years ago," Claire said. "I miss her a lot. And Grandpa, too."
"He was a good man. Tough as nails, though. He gave me about the worst licking I ever had in my life one afternoon—right over the end of that porch rail there—for calling Abe Lincoln a stinking Yankee son-of-a-bitch. Damned near took the hide off my rear with that big Mexican leather belt he used to wear. Your Grandpa took his politics real serious."
She smiled. "He never raised a hand to me. Every time my mother threatened to spank me, he'd drag me off somewhere and deliver one of his awful, long lectures, instead."
"Maybe the old man should have let your Ma have her way with you," Campbell suggested. "A couple of real good paddlin's when they were called for might have improved your manners some."
"Well, Mr. Campbell," Claire said haughtily, "I can only repeat that if my manner offends you so deeply, and you don't want to stay here, the gate's right where you found it."
Campbell shook his head, and got down from his horse again. "You know, I think maybe I'll stick around a while. You're on the ornery side, but your Ma was a brave lady, and Colonel Parkins was as fine a gentleman as I ever met, and I figure the fruit doesn't fall far from the tree. It's about time somebody gave Linus Thacker a run for his money, and you just might be just the little lady thorny enough to do it—with a little help."
"That's all very well," Claire said cautiously, "but are you capable of taking orders from a woman? I can assure you that I won't be the easiest person to work for, and I'll demand hard work and absolute loyalty. For that, I'll pay you top dollar, and you can sleep in the barn and take your meals in the kitchen."
He looked around. "Which barn might that be?"
Claire flushed. "Well, you'll have to build it, of course. We'll have to build it, I mean. In the meantime, I keep the wagon and my own horse in that broken-down springhouse in the back. You're free to do the same until we have the barn up."
Campbell scratched his head. "You know a lot about putting up barns?"
"No, Mr. Campbell, I do not. I intend to learn that, as well."
"So, what I'll be doing mostly, is teaching you how to run a ranch and put up a barn, is that about it?"
"We need a well, too," she said, annoyed at his persistence.
He sat down on the edge of the porch. "Okay. Let's see. Raise cattle, build barns and dig wells. I'm waiting for the rest."
"Well," she conceded. "There are several crates of chickens waiting in town to be picked up, and I don't know a great deal about growing vegetables, either."
"Chickens and vegetables," he repeated, nodding. "What about a few hollyhocks or some morning glories by your back stoop? Let me ask you something. You do know how to dress yourself and to read and write, don't you?"
Claire bristled. "I read and write in three languages, thank you."
"That ought to come in real handy," he said wearily. "You do anything else useful? Can you use a gun?"
"Will that be necessary?"
"Well, that's a damn fool question if I ever heard one. Do you think Linus Thacker's just going to sit on his hind end over there at the Silver Star and let you take this place back without a fight? Your man Hernandez didn't get dead from old age, you know."
"I'm sorry about Mr. Hernandez, of course, but even if Thacker was responsible, he may have meant it as just a warning."
Campbell swore. "Hell, Stump, you're even dumber than I thought. Of course it's a warning, and it may be the last one you get before he comes down on you like a ...."
"Grandpa's pistols are in my suitcase, and I've got a shotgun and two rifles in the house," she said smugly.
"That's a start, but a couple of good hands would be handy, to go along with them. The barn can wait for now, and so can the well. Today we'll start with some empty bottles on that fence over there. Get inside and take off that idiot dress and put on some work pants. Nobody I ever knew ran a ranch in a red dress and a damned corset. How were you expecting to breathe out here in that contraption?"
He pulled the gun from his holster and handed it to her, barrel first.
She took the weapon from him carefully and tried pointing it in the approximate direction of the porch. "Don't start trying to give me orders, Lucas Campbell. I'm still the owner of this ranch, and I intend to be giving the orders, as well."
Campbell put both arms around her, positioned her hands properly on the gun and turned her back toward the yard. "I'd like to not shoot out any more windows, if it's all the same to you. It will start raining again some day. And as far as giving orders goes," he said, pointing to the farthest fence, "that'll be me, for the time being. When you can pick a lizard off that post down there at the far end of the yard or nail a jackrabbit for our dinner at the same distance, we'll talk about changing places. Meanwhile, I'll be making what decisions there are. If that doesn't suit you, try finding yourself another fella' dumb enough to stick around and get what brains he's got shot out. That's the deal. Take it or leave it."
"You can go straight to hell, you overbearing son-of-a-bitch," Claire said coldly. She hurled the gun at his head, wheeled and marched off toward the house.
As she strode by, Campbell took her arm and pulled her quickly backward, picked her up bodily and dumping her facedown over the porch railing. Already shocked into momentary silence at what was happening, she could only gasp in disbelief when he tossed up her skirt and pett
icoats to add a second indignity—two resounding, open-handed smacks across the seat of her drawers. The blows were swift, hard and purposeful and elicited an equally swift response from Claire.
"How dare you put your hands on me!" she screeched, throwing one hand back to in a belated effort at self-defense. "If you so much as touch me again, I swear I'll .…" When she turned her head to finish the threat, she saw that Campbell had picked up a long section of broken shingle from the step.
"It looks like we need to get a couple things straight here," he remarked, dusting the dirt clods from the shingle. "In the first place, if I ever catch you handling a loaded weapon like that again, I'll roast your damned rump 'til it's the color of that stupid dress you're wearing. In the second place, I don't take to being called names 'til I've earned 'em." Then, to Claire's horror, he pushed her further over the creaking porch rail until her feet swung off the ground. Suspended helplessly and in some danger of either sliding down the splintered railing or falling headfirst into her dead flowerbed, she grabbed the post at the bottom of the steps with both hands and clung to it until her arms began to ache. Humiliated and furious, Claire was more than willing to continue fighting, but in her precarious position it was obvious that escape was impossible.
She could still hurl insults at him, however, and she did—as many of her grandfather's colorful profanities as she could bring to mind while being spanked so hard she was close to losing her grip on the splintered post. And with every new insult, Lucas Campbell simply shook his head a bit sadly, took careful aim and landed another stinging whap with the shingle. After the first dozen whaps, Claire's resolve was beginning to crumble, while the shingle—considering its age—was holding up admirably. Finally, risking an ignominious drop into the flowerbed, she reached back with both hands and grabbed the back of her drawers.
"Keep those hands down," he warned. "Reach back there again and I'm gonna pull them drawers down and give you what you've really got coming—bare-assed." He reinforced the threat with a flurry of quick but agonizing swats across the soft under-curve of Claire's buttocks, just above her thighs.
"O-W-W! Oh, God! You can't do this!" she screamed. "If your don't let me up from here, I'll go to the sheriff and swear out a warrant, the minute I ... O-O-W-W-W-W!!! Stop it, you goddamned son-of-a-bitch!"
"I'd watch my mouth if I were you," he advised. "It's that's sort of talk that got you over a porch rail with your rump on fire to begin with."
But Campbell's painful assault on what was probably the most sensitive part of her backside had reignited Claire's rage. Gritting her teeth, she kicked backward with both feet and all her remaining strength, aiming for his groin.
The kick missed. Campbell sighed. "You were always kind of a slow learner, Stump," he said. "Let's try three more and see if you smarten up."
As the raspy wood tore at the thin muslin of her drawers, Claire bucked and squirmed frantically—wasting what little remained of her strength and achieving nothing. But while the "three more" hurt, she had the odd feeling that they were being administered with a somewhat gentler hand—even a trace of reluctance. That perceived reluctance wasn't something she could prove, but it was … interesting.
"I'm hoping you'll be a bit more willing to see things my way after that," Campbell said, as he lifted her down and set her on her feet. "Unless you fire me off the place, instead." He chuckled. "Probably be just about the shortest job I ever had."
Claire kept her hands at her sides, resolutely determined not to give him the satisfaction of seeing her rub her backside or cry.
"All right, Mr. Campbell," she said as caustically as she could manage. "You've proven to me that you can beat an unarmed woman half your size into submission, but that's not what you'll be hired for—if I choose to hire you. How well do you handle that fancy weapon you're so protective of?
Campbell drew the revolver from its holster, cocked it and blew a neat row of shingles off the roof of the distant outhouse, shattering the drowsy afternoon stillness in a savage explosion of acrid gunsmoke and flying sawdust. The sound of the shots echoed for a moment or two, and when the billowing dust settled, a final shingle slipped from the shed in the sudden hush, dropping with a soft plunk onto the sun baked clay.
Claire listened to the silence, waiting for her heart to stop pounding and the dust to clear before she spoke.
"You're hired, Mr. Campbell. Now, show me where to start digging our well."
"Nope," he replied. "Forget the well. That's my first order, by the way. And stop callin' me Mr. Campbell. We'll start by putting that gate back up and fixing what fence you've got left on the place. It won't stop a full-out attack, but it might slow down a stray rider or two. It'll depend on how they come at us. Tomorrow we'll go into town and see if we can hire a couple of fellas that Thacker hasn't already scared the pants off. How much money can you put your hands on? If this is a ranch, you're gonna' need cattle."
"I've got cattle," Claire said proudly. "Forty-eight of them, arriving next week at the railhead in Brewster. I bought them from a place called Swan Land and Cattle, in Wyoming. I was told that most of them were sired, or sprung, or whatever you call it, from a large reddish-brown bull named 'Anxious' or 'Anxiety'. Something like that, if I remember the name correctly."
"Anxiety 4?" he asked, in obvious amazement.
"Yes, that was what they called him. Is that good?"
Luke shook his head and chuckled. "Herefords don't come any better. How the blazes can you afford first rate stock like that?"
Claire sighed. "I sold everything I owned, which used to be quite a lot. I sold some railroad stock and a small house I had in Chicago. I sold my furniture, my jewelry, a closet full of dead animals I'd been wearing and wished I hadn't. And I'm afraid I sold my soul, as well. It didn't appear I was going to need it out here. I have exactly one thousand dollars left, which I borrowed using the cattle as collateral. If I don't succeed here, we'll have to eat Mr. Anxiety's beautiful offspring—the ones the bank doesn't take first."
"You'll make it, all right," he said. "Your pasture's good, and the best thing about Herefords is they mature early. With good forage they'll fatten up fast. With breeding stock like you've got, good water and any luck at all, you'll have yourself one hell of a herd in a few years."
"What about Thacker?"
"Old Linus is a whole different can of worms. That's why I want that barbed wire four feet high on the other side of the creek, as fast as we can get it up."
"Fences never stopped him before," Claire observed, "when he drove Grandpa out, and your family before that."
"True enough, but back then, you and I were nothing but scrawny little kids. We're bigger now, and meaner. If you're as tough as your Ma—and I've got a feeling you are ..." He chuckled, pointing to the wobbling porch rail, "Linus Thacker will have all he can handle."
"Does that mean you'll be taking orders from me, after all?"
"Nope. It means you'll be falling out of bed every morning and working your pretty tail off until you've learned the ropes. And when you screw it up or don't listen, or just work a little too slow to suit me, or talk back, or cuss me out too often—you'll be getting your backside walloped 'til you can't sit down for supper. You've got no idea at all what you're biting off, Stump, but if I agree to risk my skin and stick around, and if you don't turn tail and run, you're going to end up being the best damned rancher around here—maybe as good as your Grandpa. Maybe even better, if I've got anything to say about it."
Claire sighed. "That's a lovely speech, but if Thacker chooses to, he can put a bullet in your back just as readily he did with Jesus Hernandez."
"Well, I'm harder to kill than most, but if that should happen, I'd be obliged if you'd bury me, say a couple of kind words over my corpse, and then get back to building that fence. If you give up on this place and let Thacker get his hands on Anxiety's kids and grandkids, I swear I'll come back from the grave, find me the stoutest switch between here and hell, and whale the tar out of y
ou. If you and I can't beat Linus Thacker while I'm alive, you'll have to do it with me dead. You understand?"
Claire beamed. "I understand completely, Mr. … Luke, I mean. Now, I already have thirty rolls of barbed wire behind this house, a pile of fence posts as high as the house itself, and a stack of tools that I have absolutely no idea how to use. How do we go about stringing five hundred acres of barbed wire?"
Her grinned at her and nodded toward the house. "First, get out of that corset. The dress, too. I don't want you passing out on me just to get out of a hard day's work—and you already know what'll happen if I hear any backtalk. Until you get some calluses on those dainty hands, you'll want a pair of heavy gloves, too. Oh, and grab yourself a big hat while you're in there. By dark, you'll be wishing you'd never seen me, or this ranch, or a bunch of Hereford cows. Now move your rump. We're burning daylight."
* * *
As Claire walked up the battered steps and into her own house, she wasn't thinking about barbed wire or Hereford bulls, or even about Luke Campbell. She was deep in unwelcome thoughts of John Maitland—the husband she'd left behind in Chicago. The man who'd given her a life of luxury and ease, and from whom she'd fled when the price of that luxurious life became too high to bear.
It wasn't John's wealth that had originally attracted her, though. It was his powerful personality and easy charm—swept off her feet, she'd heard it called. Having been poor most of her life, Claire wasn't accustomed to the level of determination a man like John Maitland could bring to bear on a woman when he wanted something from her. She wasn't prepared for the endless deluge of expensive gifts and flowers, or by being courted at intimate dinners in elegant restaurants, or at the theatre and the opera. Without knowing exactly when she lost her sense of who she really was, Claire had begun to feel flattered by his attention and by his desire to have her as his own. He had finally won her not with money but with the sheer force of his own will.
But when he had her love safely in hand, everything seemed to change. His strength turned to emotional cruelty and his determination to total domination. When she protested and tried to stand up to him, John retaliated. Before long, the emotional cruelty had turned physical, and her life had slipped gradually into a nightmarish cycle of anger and abuse. The years with John were memories Claire wanted desperately to forget, but she hadn't yet put those years behind her. As a result, she had come to regard strong men as threatening, and the motives of all men as suspect.