Color of the Wind

by Elizabeth Grayson

  "No." His uncle's mouth had narrowed with satisfaction. "I have something else in mind entirely."

  And this had been it.

  Baird tightened his grip on the seat, as the man beside him contrived to ease the wagon over the deep, frozen ruts that passed for a road.

  "That 'ere's the Sugar Creek outfit," the driver volunteered unnecessarily. They were the first words he had spoken since they'd headed out at dawn. Baird had given up asking questions about the ranch two days before.

  "I gathered as much."

  He couldn't help wondering if the fellow had any idea why he was here—or what they called men like him back in England. Men who'd made a scandal of their lives, who'd been censured by their families. Men who'd been sent as far away from London as possible. They were called remittance men—sons of the aristocracy who'd been given an allowance to pave their way to perdition. Or a job managing a cattle ranch two hundred miles from nowhere.

  Baird had been exiled, plain and simple. But his uncle hadn't counted on him contriving a way to undermine the sentence he'd been given. No one had. Before he left England, Baird had booked passage to Wyoming for Ariel and the children. They'd be here in less than a month, and then he'd see how long this exile lasted. How long could his uncle hold out against Arthur Merritt's pleas that his daughter and grandchildren be saved from this godforsaken place? And his son-in-law with them—or so Baird hoped.

  As the wagon jolted across the wind-winnowed grassland, Baird began to make out the details of the outpost. The house was larger and far more substantial than he expected. There was a barn around back, several paddocks, and a string of two or three other buildings whose use he could not immediately identify. All of them were rough-hewn, made of peeled logs that had weathered to a soft gray-brown in the scant three years the ranch had been in operation.

  As the driver shortened up the reins to make the turn that would take them into the yard, Baird caught his arm.

  "Stop here."

  The man blinked. "We unload supplies 'round back."

  Baird stiffened. Three centuries of Northcross arrogance were evident in the eyebrow he cocked in the ranch hand's direction. "I am not supplies," Baird informed him. "I will arrive by the front door of my new home, and be greeted properly."

  The fellow shrugged and pulled the team to a stamping halt. Baird jumped down from the wagon seat, his muscles stiff from the hours he'd spent hunched and hanging on for dear life.

  "Unload my trunks with the other goods," he instructed and strode toward the door, wondering why the servants hadn't already hustled out to greet him.

  When no one had appeared by the time he'd crossed the porch, Baird stepped up to the door and rapped sharply with the knob of his walking stick.

  There was no answer.

  He banged his stick again and waited.

  Still, no one came.

  He tried the latch. The door opened soundlessly until a gust of wind tore the handle from his grasp, banging the wide wooden panel back on its hinges. The sound echoed through the house like a cannonade.

  Baird grabbed for the door and closed out the wintry wind. It was little warmer inside. No fire had been laid in either of the wide, stone fireplaces that stood at the ends of the long main room. The curtainless windows were etched with frost. The servants would hear about their negligence in not having a fire blazing on the hearth and hot water steaming in preparation for his arrival. Even on safari in Africa and high in the mountains above the Khyber Pass, bearers had seen to such necessities.

  Baird strode to the center of the room and looked around. So, this was to be his home for the foreseeable future.

  At one end a long pine table stood before the hearth. At the other a cluster of heavy furniture flanked the opposite fireplace. The floors were rough-sawed and scrubbed almost white. A few woven rugs broke the uneven expanse. Hunting trophies adorned the walls—several brace of elk and moose antlers, and a buffalo head, its cold glassy gaze fixed on him.

  At each end of the main room were doors that must open into the bedchambers. Stairs leading to an enclosed loft above the parlor area climbed the near wall. The place reminded Baird of a hunting box he'd visited in Austria years before.

  For all that the floor was freshly swept and the furniture dusted, there was not a soul around.

  "Hullo," he called out. "Your master has arrived. Come out and make him welcome."

  Still no one came.

  Baird shifted on his feet, uneasiness pinching his belly. The wind moaning around the corners of the house and his own breathing were the only sounds in that cavernous room. The solitude enforced by those miles of unbroken prairie suddenly bore down on him.

  So this is exile, Baird thought again and shivered in spite of himself.

  * * *

  "Hullo?"

  Baird heard the voice behind him and spun around, scowling his displeasure at the man and woman who came toward him from the back of the house. "It's about time someone came to attend me," he admonished them. "I'm Baird Northcross, your new master."

  The tall man ambled nearer, his gray eyes settled deeply into pockets of wrinkles. "Well, Mr. Northcross," he said. "I expect I do indeed work for you, but out here there's not a man alive who calls another his master."

  Baird raised one eyebrow in disdain. Never did a servant correct his betters.

  "I'm Buck Johnson," the man went on. "Before he left for England last fall, Mr. Wycliffe renewed my contract as foreman for another year. This here is my wife, Myra. She cooks for the hands."

  Baird spared a glance for the broad, doughy woman who stood nearly as tall as her husband.

  "You're not my butler, then?" Baird asked, shifting his gaze back to the older man.

  The woman gave a snort of laughter, quickly muffling it behind her hand.

  Baird bristled, a flush creeping up his neck. He wasn't accustomed to being laughed at by spoon-wielding hags.

  Buck Johnson's mouth tweaked just a little beneath his salt-and-pepper mustache. "I don't suppose this is the kind of outfit you're used to, Mr. Northcross. We run cows here, not house parties. There aren't any servants, though Myra has showed a couple of the Indian women what she expects when it comes to dusting and washing the floors."

  Baird took a moment to wonder how Ariel was going to manage without servants to attend her. He supposed he'd have to get a telegram off to her somehow apprising her of the situation and suggesting she hire servants in Boston to see to their needs while they were here.

  "What about my meals?" he asked.

  "You're welcome to take breakfast and supper with the hands," Myra invited him. "The mess is out around back. It doesn't much pay to cook a noon meal when so many of the men are gone all day."

  It was almost as if these people expected him to adjust his schedule to accommodate the needs of the men who worked for him.

  "I see," Baird answered, but he didn't mean to leave it at that. Once he had established his position here, these people would do as he saw fit. He'd seen how well that practice worked in British possessions across the world, and there was no time like the present to impress upon them that he had every intention of having things his own way.

  "I would like for you, Mr. Johnson, to escort me on a tour of the property—this afternoon, if possible. I want to become acquainted with the acreage and see how the stock has fared over the winter months when there's been no company representative to oversee things."

  Johnson narrowed his eyes as if he were watching everything from way back inside himself. "If that's what you want."

  "Indeed it is. Have my trunks brought in," Baird continued, "and have someone unpack my riding clothes."

  "Shall I make up the bedroom upstairs?" Mrs. Johnson asked.

  "Is that the master bedchamber?" When she nodded, Baird added, "I want fires laid and lit immediately. I'd like a basin of hot water brought in to me as soon as possible, a bath prepared for when I return from my ride, and dinner tonight on a tray."

  "In c
ase you need them, Mr. Wycliffe kept the company ledgers in the bottom drawer of the desk over yonder," Johnson volunteered.

  "Well, then," Baird went on. "Perhaps I'll look them over after dinner. Oh, and I'd also like a decanter of your very best whiskey."

  Johnson and his wife exchanged a lingering glance. "Very well, Mr. Northcross," Johnson answered. "We'll do what we can."

  As the couple turned to go, Baird couldn't help reflecting on just how well his first meeting with the ranch foreman and his wife had gone.

  * * *

  More than an hour later, Baird emerged from the back of the ranch house and crossed the yard toward the low log barn. Though the fires in the house had been lit, he'd had to carry his own trunks up to his room and rummage through them to find his melton hunting jacket, jodhpurs, boots, and black top hat.

  A fair number of ranch hands were gathered out by the main paddock. Buck Johnson came toward him as he approached.

  "You about settled in, Mr. Northcross?"

  Baird decided not to mention the matter of the trunks. "I've a bit more to do, Mr. Johnson, but I want to see what I can of the ranch while we have daylight."

  "I thought you'd want to meet the hands, so I called together as many of them as I could find," Johnson explained. "This here's Frank Barnes. He's about as good at wrangling horses as any man I've ever seen."

  The Negro cowhand bobbed his head.

  "Next is Jeff Mason. He helped bring the first of the company's cattle up from Texas. Willy Martin knows the range around here as well as anyone. And Lem Spivey..."

  Baird acknowledged them all, though he had no intention of being here long enough to get to know who was who. Only "Bear" Burton and Matt Hastings made much of an impression, the former because he lived up to his name, and the latter because he seemed too young to be doing a cowboy's work.

  Once Johnson had finished, the men stood waiting, their mouths drawn tight at the corners and their eyes bright. Did they expect him to address them, Baird wondered, the way his uncle did his retainers when he arrived at one of his country estates?

  Baird cleared his throat. "I'm pleased to be in America, and I hope that during my tenure you'll work hard to make this ranch as profitable as possible for our investors back in London."

  Baird sensed a reaction among the men, but before he could gauge what it was, Johnson was opening the paddock gate. "We've got a horse all saddled up for you, Mr. Northcross."

  Inside the fence a bay, and a buttermilk stood tacked and ready. The buttermilk whickered when he saw Johnson.

  Baird moved gingerly toward the bay, gathering up its reins, giving the gelding a chance to catch his scent. He'd been riding since before he could walk and knew how to approach an unfamiliar mount.

  The bay snuffled and shook his head.

  Baird gave the gelding a minute to settle, then reached out to stroke his neck. His eyes rolled, and his muscles shimmied beneath Baird's hand, but the bay stood his ground. Baird could sense that the cowboys perched on the fence were judging him by how he treated this animal.

  Ignoring them, he kept his touch firm and his voice gentle. "You're a fine, strong brute, now aren't you?" he cajoled, sliding his hand under the gelding's throatlatch.

  "You'd like to be friends, but it's just too soon to trust me."

  Baird stepped in close to check the saddle girth, and the pony danced. Baird gathered up more of the reins in his left hand while he stroked with his right.

  After riding with English tack, this western saddle seemed monstrous, cumbersome. The horn and cantel were too tall, the stirrups boxy and awkward. Even for a seasoned rider it would take some getting used to.

  Beside him, Johnson mounted his buttermilk with practiced grace. Baird would have liked a bit more time with the bay, but he turned his stirrup and tucked his foot into the toe box. As he swung into the saddle, his mount abruptly shied. Baird fought to find his seat and gripped hard with his knees, searching for the off-side stirrup. The gelding hopped twice to the right, kicked up his heels, and sent Baird sailing.

  He landed hard. The frozen earth was like rock beneath him. Baird rolled to his feet, aware that the men along the fence were hooting with laughter. Hot color seeped up his throat. He had meant to make a more impressive start than this.

  Without sparing a glance for anyone, Baird scooped up his hat and set out to catch his horse. It was tripping around the paddock, ears back and reins trailing. Baird spread his arms, shifting right and left and right again, forcing the animal back into the fence. He lunged for the reins and managed to snag them as the horse broke past him.

  He took his time winning back the gelding's confidence, soothing it with barely intelligible words, stroking its muzzle, working back to its neck and shoulder.

  Except for the shuffle of several more hands arriving, the men along the fence were expectant and silent. Baird let them wait until the bay had lost a few of its misgivings. Cautiously he eased his foot into the stirrup.

  The gelding bucked as soon as Baird hit leather, kicking up its heels twice before it gave a twisting hop to the left that unseated him again.

  The ground slammed him harder on the second landing. His shoulder pulsed pain down his arm, and he'd twisted his knee. Then above the good-natured ripple of the cowboys' laughter, came the sound of a single man clapping his hands in sarcastic applause.

  Baird wheeled toward the cowhands just in time to recognize grins of sly complicity pass from man to man. But before he had time to think what those smiles might mean, he recognized the man at the end of the fence.

  It was Cullen McKay.

  Baird sucked in a gasp of surprise, his belly tightening. The last time he'd seen Cullen was across a gaming table at White's the year before Baird's younger son was born. He had been spending a few days in London while he waited for the Indiaman he'd booked passage on to load its cargo.

  McKay had lurched to his feet as Baird raked in the last of his markers. "God'am son-of-a-bish," he'd proclaimed. "B' now, I should know better than t' cross paths with the likes o' him. He's played me false since we was boys t'gether at Harrow, played me false more ways than I can count. And played me false again tonight."

  Someone at the table had leaped to his defense. "You're not implying that Mr. Northcross is cheating, are you, sir?"

  "What he's implying," Baird had broken in, "is that he can no more accept responsibility for his actions now than he could when he was fourteen."

  McKay had lunged for him, but two of his cronies had swarmed over him and wrestled McKay toward the door. With a smirk of contempt, Baird had watched them go.

  But Cullen was the one smirking now—and at Baird's expense.

  The cowhands must have sensed the animosity between the two men, and their laughter gave way to wary silence.

  Baird ambled nearer, taking time to study McKay, the lean, wind-bronzed planes of the other man's face, the confident set of his shoulders. The loathing in his bright blue eyes. Nothing had changed in these last years except the essence of the men themselves.

  Dressed in fringed and beaded buckskins and a deep, broad-brimmed hat, Cullen McKay seemed to have become a part of this. Part of this life, part of this land.

  "Well, well, Mr. Baird Northcross. Whatever in the world has brought you here?" McKay taunted.

  Shame flared up like a live coal in the center of Baird's chest, its heat pulsing outward until he couldn't breathe. These cowboys didn't know he'd been exiled here, but Cullen did. They wouldn't realize what he was, but Cullen knew exactly what name to call him—failure, outcast. Remittance man.

  It didn't matter that Cullen might have been sent here for the same reasons he had. Not when Baird had always considered himself so far superior to his uncle's bastard son.

  Though feverish color burned in his face, Baird kept his tone level and gave what credence he could to the lie. "I agreed to oversee the family's holdings in the ranch this year."

  "Really?" McKay exclaimed on a gust of derisive laughte
r. "What an incredible stroke of good fortune!"

  "Good fortune?" Baird flushed hotter, the butt of some joke he didn't understand. "And how is that?"

  "I manage the Double T, over that ridge to the south," McKay drawled. "My investors have been trying for some time to buy the Sugar Creek's cattle and water rights. So far, your uncle and his board of directors have refused all offers. But after you've managed this place for a season or two, they'll be happy to sell—probably for pennies on the dollar."

  Baird hadn't considered what his uncle and his backers would expect of him in financial terms. He hadn't acknowledged the responsibility that came with this place. He hadn't acknowledged anything but the disgrace. And his resentment.

  Now, faced with Cullen McKay—his taunts, and his evident success—Baird would be forced to acknowledge why he was here in Wyoming.

  "I wouldn't count my chickens before they've hatched, McKay," Baird shot back. "If you've learned to run a cattle ranch, any monkey can!"

  "And you think you're that sort of monkey, do you, Northcross?" Cullen gave a snort of laughter. "With you here, my job is a good deal easier. I can scarcely wait to write my backers and tell them you've come to manage the Sugar Creek this season. Baird Northcross, indeed." He pushed away from the fence. "A man who can't so much as keep his seat on a western saddle."

  As if to demonstrate his own facility, McKay turned and sprang onto his horse. The two cowboys who'd ridden in with him did the same.

  Baird watched them go, furious with McKay and disgraced in front of his own hands.

  There wasn't a sound in the paddock after McKay and his men left, nothing except the ceaseless chatter of the wind through the winter-dry grass. Baird, who'd traveled far and wide, had never felt so displaced, so very much a stranger.

  With an effort he turned to where the gelding stood.

  The horse's head was bowed, his reins trailing on the ground.

  "What's his name?" he asked, suddenly needing to make some connection in this alien world. "Does this horse have a name?"

  "Dandy," someone called out, and the irony was not lost on Baird.