Color of the Wind

by Elizabeth Grayson

  Baird swallowed his anger like a bitter tonic. "We've got to get out of here," he agreed. "Buck says when a storm rolls out of those mountains, it can last for days."

  He went to help his daughter mount her gelding, but China shrugged away. "I can manage on my own," she sniffed and clambered into the sidesaddle unassisted.

  Baird didn't argue. The wind had changed direction and was howling down from the peaks. Cold pierced his jacket like talons. He grabbed up Dandy's reins and looked for Khy.

  The boy was already mounted on Ardith's horse, wrapped up tight in Ardith's arms.

  "Damned children are nothing but trouble," he muttered under his breath and swung into the saddle.

  Sugar Creek Ranch

  April 15th, 1882

  Mr. Gavin Rawlinson

  Publisher—Rawlinson Books

  305 Oak Street

  Boston, Massachusetts

  Dear Gavin,

  Due to circumstances beyond my control, it is necessary for me to stay on in Wyoming for a time. Having spoken with the children's father at length about his plans, I am reluctant to leave them here with him. Though facilities are considerably more luxurious than I expected, no provision has been made for someone to look after China and the boys. To be perfectly fair, Mr. Northcross believed that a governess was to accompany my sister and the children west. But if I pack up and leave the ranch as I intended, the children will be quite without supervision. However, Baird and I have come to an agreement whereby I will stay on until after the roundup, some time in mid-June.

  What kind of delays this will cause in your publication of "Abigail Goose Goes to Town," I cannot say. I don't see any reason why I can't work on the manuscript while I am here. To that end, could you please ship me the art supplies I will need to complete my sketches? A separate list is enclosed.

  I hate to trouble you with this, Gavin, but I know these materials are available in Boston, and it is more efficient for you to send them to me directly than to wait for Uncle Franklin to finish his latest essay and pack up my paints. I needn't tell you that he's brilliant, but not of a particularly practical turn of mind. Besides, I imagine he is already considerably put out that I will not be returning to Concord to accompany him on his round of spring lectures.

  In closing, I must say that our journey here was uneventful, for the most part. I would so like to thank you for seeing us off at the station and for your foresight in providing the hamper of foodstuffs. They proved to be our salvation on the train. Your suggestion that we spend a night in Chicago was little more than a stroke of genius.

  Since the ranch is quite remote, it is useless to try to reach me by telegraph. Send the supplies and any other correspondence in care of Baird Northcross, Sugar Creek Ranch, Rock Creek, Wyoming Territory. Sooner or later one of the cowboys will ride into town to pick them up.

  I am most rustically yours,

  Ardith Merritt

  P.S. Gavin—Could you also send me the newest ten-penny dreadfuls from the book stalls there in Boston? You know the kind I like. Thanks so much, A.

  Chapter 5

  The art supplies from Gavin arrived three weeks later. As Ardith unpacked them at the long pine table before the fire, she could not have been more pleased with his selection. Everything fit snugly into a handsome, wooden paint box. Gleaming metal tubes of pigment and an assortment of brushes lay in a compartmented tray. Beneath it nestled a small ivory pallet for mixing colors, two pewter flasks for carrying water, and a tiny ceramic bowl. Gavin had also included a drawing board, several pads of good rag paper, a parcel of books, and a letter that delighted Ardith more than anything else.

  April 29th, 1882

  My Dear Ardith,

  How I regret that your brother-in-law's inattention to his children's needs is detaining you in Wyoming. I am not sure how all of us will manage while you are gone. I am, however, sending on the things you asked me to get, including a supply of ten-penny dreadfuls that should hold you well into next winter. But then, it sounds as if your duties will not keep you in the wilds as long as that. Do let me know about your progress with your book and the situation with the children.

  I am ever your obedient servant,

  Gavin

  "Oh Gavin," Ardith breathed and smiled to herself. "You dear old thing!"

  China glanced up from examining the elegant tin of candy that had come from Arthur Merritt with the rest of the mail. He'd sent Durban dominoes and put in a troop of bright tin soldiers for Khy, but there wasn't a word of greeting for Ardith herself.

  "Gavin?" the girl asked, clearly intrigued. "Are those from Mr. Rawlinson? The man who saw us off at the railway station?"

  "Yes," Ardith answered.

  The way she said that single word must have betrayed more about her feelings for her publisher than Ardith intended, because China's regard immediately sharpened. "Why, Aunt Ardith, do you have a tendre for Mr. Rawlinson?"

  Ardith felt the color seep into her cheeks. "Heavens, child! He's my publisher." Unbidden, Ardith remembered the way Gavin's golden eyes had glowed when he'd said good-bye to her in Boston. She could almost feel the intimate warmth of his fingers clasping hers.

  "Still, he's a handsome man, your Mr. Rawlinson."

  "He's not my Mr. Rawlinson," she corrected her niece. "What Gavin and I have is a business relationship."

  Ardith was not able to gauge how much of the denial the girl believed because just then Baird, Durban, and Khy came slamming in from the back of the house.

  "—can't think when I've seen anyone take such a foolish chance!" he was admonishing one of the boys. Ardith didn't have to question which.

  Though they'd been at the ranch three full weeks, Baird had yet to grasp that he needed to be particularly vigilant when it came to his younger son. But then, in spite of the arrangement they'd made, Baird had spent precious little time with the children.

  The late-season blizzard that blew in the day they'd toured the ranch had given him an excuse to ride out with the hands as they drove the cattle down onto the flats. Then, when the weather cleared and the chinooks swept down the mountains to melt the drifts, he'd stayed away rescuing cows from the bog-holes that developed in every arroyo and around every stream.

  In truth, Ardith was more than a little surprised by Baird's commitment to the Sugar Creek. Though he never seemed to find time to look at the ledgers or answer the mounting pile of correspondence, Baird was in the saddle from dawn to dark. He only returned to the house to wolf down supper, swallow a tumbler of whiskey, and fall into bed.

  In fact, it was unusual for the boys to be with their father at this time of day, but the hands had brought the saddle band into the corral this morning, and with it a score of mustangs. Apparently Khy had gotten closer to the wild horses than he should.

  "You could have been trampled!" Baird had Khy by the scruff of the neck. "You could have been killed!"

  "Those horses didn't look half so big from the top of the fence," the boy admitted.

  Baird turned on Durban. "And why didn't you keep an eye on your brother?"

  Ardith set Gavin's note aside and rose to Durban's defense. "You're their father. Why weren't you looking after them?"

  Baird turned to her, the ruddy flush in his face deepening. "I thought we agreed that you were going to see to the children until I got back from the roundup."

  "What we agreed," Ardith clarified in a tone guaranteed to set Baird Northcross' teeth on edge, "was that I would stay on until you got to know your children better. You'll never do that unless you spend time with them."

  The long and rancorous negotiation several nights after Ardith arrived had led to this agreement and an uneasy peace. Though to her way of thinking, Baird was already shirking his responsibilities.

  "Well, just so you know," Baird went on, "I'm going to be busy all afternoon. Buck hired some fancy bronc peeler to ride the mustangs we need to break."

  I've read about this, Ardith thought, her head swimming with scenes from her ten
-penny dreadfuls—of a sunny corral, of a brawny bronco buster, of a sleek-skinned mustang jumping and bucking.

  "I thought the children might like to watch." Baird slid her a sidelong glance as if he sensed how much the horse-breaking intrigued her. "But I'll be too busy to keep an eye on them. Now if you were willing to do that..."

  "Mr. Johnson says bronco busting's really something to see," Durban put in.

  "Oh, Aunt Ardith, please!" China cajoled. "You will go with us to the corral so we can watch, won't you?"

  "I'll be good," Khy promised.

  Ardith knew very well that Baird was manipulating her, using the children to win his way. It didn't help that she could see the twitch at the corner of his mouth as he waited for her capitulation.

  Damn him, she thought. Though his underhandedness rankled her, Ardith wanted to be out at that corral when one of the mustangs bolted in. She wanted to feel her pulse race as the rider swung onto its back, wanted to hear the cheers and taste the dust kicked up by the churning hooves.

  She'd make him accept his responsibilities for the children one way or the other—just not today.

  "China, find our hats and shawls," she ordered, scowling at Baird. "Durban, get a jacket. It's not warm enough for you to be outside in your shirtsleeves. Khy—" She pinioned the six-year-old with her gaze and waited until those wide blue eyes were locked with hers. "—I want your word that you'll stay where we put you and not wander off."

  "I will," the younger boy answered, giving a promise she knew he meant to keep.

  Once Ardith had skewered her hat in place with a long, bone-tipped hatpin and flapped her shawl around her shoulders, she ushered the children out the door.

  With something that looked suspiciously like a smirk, Baird stepped back to let them pass.

  * * *

  When they reached the big round corral behind the barn, Baird saw that the dirt had been turned, plowed up as if they meant to plant instead of trample it. A bridle and a coil of rawhide rope hung on the snubbing post in the center of the paddock. A saddle with its stirrups tied up was thrown over the fence on the far side of the enclosure.

  The bronc peeler Johnson had hired stood nearby. He was a tall, rail-thin man named John Burroughs, who had a cocksure way of holding himself that made him look like he was sauntering even when he was standing still. Baird hoped that confidence was justified—especially since he was paying Burroughs eight dollars a head to saddle-break the mustangs.

  After shaking Burroughs' hand and exchanging a few words with Buck Johnson, Baird went back to where Ardith and the children were perched on the fence. He glanced across at them as he took his place. China's mouth was bowed in a moue of impatience, eager for the excitement to begin. Durban's carefully schooled indifference had slipped a little. Ardith had Khy nestled into the crook of her elbow, as if mere proximity could keep him out of trouble.

  For a moment Baird studied his sister-in-law, surprised by the anticipation in her eyes. He never expected someone so straight-laced and Boston-proper to like it here, never thought she could adapt to this rough-and-ready life, or make friends among these simple, plain-spoken people.

  And he never imagined that the land would speak with the same beguiling voice to Ardith as it did to him.

  God knew, she wasn't at all the Ardith he had expected his guileless nineteen-year-old English fiancée to become. She had developed backbone over the years, and passion and an iron will. She'd come to expect too much from people—damn her. More than they were prepared to give, more kindness and concern and patience than they had. More tenderness and wisdom.

  It wasn't as if he could be the kind of father she wanted him to be to his children. It wasn't as if he were capable of changing, and he didn't like looking up and finding her there, waiting for him to become the man she thought he should be.

  Though he deeply wished she was anywhere but here on the Sugar Creek, he didn't have the faintest idea how he'd manage without her. If she weren't seeing to the children's needs, he wouldn't be able to ride out at sunrise and stumble home in the dark, too tired to think. He'd have to acknowledge the longing in his children's eyes, face their need for things he couldn't even begin to fathom. When she left he'd have to provide for these children somehow, and he just didn't know—

  The first mustang burst into the corral, and Baird let his concerns about the children dissolve in a rush of exhilaration. He edged forward, watching the horse skip in nervous circles around the corral. It blew and snorted, its muscles rolling beneath its dun-gray coat. The animal's fear was instinctive and palpable.

  Baird gripped the top rail of the fence, his heart thudding heavily.

  Burroughs ambled over to the snubbing post and shook out his rope. With a single flick of his wrist he played out a broad, sinuous loop and made an overhand toss. It dropped unerringly around the mustang's neck. Then Burroughs wrapped his end around the snubbing post and waited for the horse to run out the slack. When it did, the loop pulled taut, all but jerking the pony off its feet.

  The mustang stumbled and fought the line, backpedaling, pulling the noose tighter. It trumpeted, shook its head and jerked back, half-rising in fear.

  Baird's hold on the fence rail tightened.

  Burroughs worked hand over hand up the rope, approaching the terrified animal. While the mustang's eyes were riveted on the bronco buster, another roper rushed in to snag the mustang's forefeet with a second line.

  The pony staggered, all but crashing to his knees, then it stood there hobbled, helpless and quivering. Its eyes were wide, its ears lay back. Its sides bellowed in an out.

  Burroughs crept forward.

  Slowly now, Baird found himself advising. Ease toward him. Let him settle.

  Burroughs yanked the neck rope tighter. The horse heaved and blew.

  "Don't rush him," Baird warned under his breath.

  This time Burroughs seemed to heed him. The buster waited until the horse had quieted, then pushed in close and slid a bridle up the pony's muzzle.

  The mustang tossed its head, fighting the leather bands and metal bit. Burroughs stayed with him and pushed the snaffle into the pony's mouth. He buckled the straps to keep the bridle in place then gathered in the reins.

  In spite of the hobble and the bronco buster's grip, the horse heaved back on its haunches and tried to rise. Burroughs stepped out of the way and jerked the reins. He hauled the animal down again.

  Baird shifted uncomfortably. Though he understood the mixture of determination and discipline it took to break a horse, he knew it took patience and kindness, too.

  In the center of the corral, Burroughs dragged hard on the pony's reins, fighting it to a standstill. He threw a blanket over the horse's back, then took the saddle from one of the ranch hands and slung the saddle over the horse's back.

  The mustang shied and shook, trying to dislodge the weight as if it were an enemy on his back. But before he could manage it, the peeler stepped in close and drew up the cinch. The horse shied, fighting to get away. Burroughs dragged on the reins, fighting for control.

  "He's going to ruin that pony," Baird muttered angrily.

  When Buck had explained how things were done out here, he'd assured Baird that Burroughs was one of the most efficient horse breakers in the territory. But he was finding it hard to watch this, hard to sit still.

  Out in the corral both Burroughs and the mustang seemed to be catching their breath. Burroughs took off his hump-crowned Stetson and wiped his brow with his handkerchief. The horse stood quivering. Once he'd resettled his hat, the peeler gave a last tug on the cinch, pulled free the rope that bound up the stirrups, and jumped into the saddle.

  At the same moment, the second cowboy loosed the hobbles.

  With Burroughs's additional weight on its back, the mustang snorted and heaved. He hopped twice to the right, kicked up his heels, and twisted sideways.

  A whoop swelled through the men gathered around the corral.

  Baird turned in surprise when he he
ard Durban yelling as loudly as everyone else. The child's spontaneity tweaked the corners of Baird's mouth. Maybe there was a boy tucked up inside his son, after all.

  That smile died on his lips when Baird turned back and saw Burroughs had pulled a quirt from his belt and begun to use it.

  Though one horseman didn't interfere with the way another man handled his animals, Baird's blood ran cold. He tried to tell himself this was Burroughs' job, Burroughs' ride, but his instincts clamored for him to intervene.

  Out in the corral the pony rolled its eyes and plunged to the left. It made three stiff-legged hops around the ring. Burroughs slashed with his quirt on every one of them.

  China's fingers closed over Baird's, squeezing hard. He glanced across and read the distress on his daughter's face. Khy's eyes were wide as dinner plates and filled with tears.

  The ranch hands howled in appreciation of the peeler's seat.

  Each time Burroughs slashed it, the gray horse screamed.

  Then Baird saw blood streaming down the mustang's flank and jumped down off the fence before he could think.

  Burroughs and the pony made a series of stiff-legged jumps across the corral. At the far end, the horse gave a violent heave that sent the peeler sailing.

  Baird bore down on the man as he was clambering to his feet. "Get out of here, you son of a bitch!" he shouted. "I won't have my horses mistreated!"

  Burroughs turned, acknowledged Baird, and pushed back his hat with a flick of his thumb. "An' just what exactly do you know about breaking mustangs, Mr. Northcross?"

  Baird felt heat come up in his face and hung on to his temper by his fingertips. "I know enough not to beat them bloody. I know enough not to drag on their mouths. I know that a perfectly good mount can be ruined if it's mistreated the first time it's handled."

  "What's the matter here?" Buck Johnson arrived from the far side of the corral, a little out of breath.

  Baird became suddenly aware of the Sugar Creek cowhands sitting along the fence, watching him, judging him. Probably thinking he had no business interfering.