Cyrus gave each of the boys a handful of crunchies, then showed them how to hold out their hands with the palms flat to feed the horse. Scott thought that was all right, but he was more interested in what the farrier was doing, and he squatted down beside him so he could see what the older man was up to. Kate knew the questions were going to start coming fast and furious, and she knew she was going to have to try to distract him, or he would drive everyone nuts. Before she had a chance to reprimand her son, Cyrus was explaining what the farrier was doing and why. Then the questions started. Why did the man have on a leather apron? Why did the man use that big file on the horse's hoof? Was it like Mom filing her nails? Did it hurt when the man nailed the shoes on? Why couldn't they just glue on the new shoe – and could he have the old one?
It wasn't just that Scott asked a ton of questions; he had to have everything qualified and verified – just so he had his facts straight. If he retained half of what he learned, he was going to be a walking encyclopedia by the time he was fourteen.
Mark was quieter. He didn't ask as much, but he stored up information like a sponge. Not only would he remember the step-by-step process, but he would remember the name of every tool, the number of nails the farrier used and anything else that he happened to notice – which was usually quite a bit. Kate thought about some of the things that had happened during the past year. Her stomach knotted. Sometimes Mark remembered far too much.
A tall lanky man in his early thirties, wearing a black hat, a black denim jacket and black shotgun chaps, came out of one of the box stalls, his spurs jangling against the cement alleyway. Cyrus called to him. "Ross. Come here for a minute."
The young man approached with the loose-hipped saunter of a man who'd spent hours in the saddle, his unshaven face unsmiling. "Ross, this here is Miz Quinn and her two boys – she's the one Tanner hired to look after Burt. This here is Ross Wilson, our foreman."
Ross Wilson touched the brim of his hat, a flicker of something appearing in his eyes before his expression shut down. "Ma'am."
As Cyrus explained that he'd shanghaied Buddy to stay with Burt, Kate studied the younger man. He was younger than she had originally thought – maybe twenty-seven – but hardened beyond his years. He was, she inwardly recognized, a man you would want with you, rather than against you, if the chips were ever down. Scotty was watching him with absolute awe, as if one of his cartoon heroes had just sprung to life. Kate wasn't sure she liked the idea.
Their business concluded, Ross looked at her, touched the brim of his hat again, then headed out of the barn, something almost insolent in his swagger.
* * *
The puppies and their mother were in a box stall filled with fresh straw, with a wooden box in the corner that had an old quilt in it. Mark and Scott were on their knees in an instant. The mother, not one of the three dogs they'd seen before, was also a Border collie, and so were the puppies. The puppies, Kate could tell, were only days old, with their eyes barely open. And their bodies were so roly-poly, they could barely walk. They were adorable.
But before Scott could touch one, Mark caught his arm. "No, Scotty. Remember how Mom showed us with Brian Olsen's dog? Let the mom smell you first. She's got to get to know us. So she knows you're not going to hurt them."
Leaning back against the heavy plank wall, Kate watched them, a traitorous twist unfolding in her chest as Mark gently stroked the mother, his voice a soft singsong as he talked to her. Scott, abdicating to Mark's authority in this instance, carefully mimicked his big brother's slow, gentle strokes, but not exactly giving the mother dog his full, undying attention. He kept glancing at the puppies; he wanted to get his hands on one of them in the worst way.
Mark finally picked up one of the puppies and carefully showed it to the mother, his eyes lighting up when she licked his hand. "All right," he said softly, his tone underscored with awe. "You can pick one up now, Scott. But be real careful, okay?"
Cyrus, who had been watching the byplay, crouched down beside Mark and began stroking Bess's head with his weathered hand. "You handled that jest right, Mark," he said, his voice quiet. "Bess wouldn't have hurt you, but she wouldn't have liked it much if you'd manhandled her pups right off the bat. You done a good job."
Keeping his eyes averted, Mark gave an embarrassed little shrug, unaccustomed to praise from a male. He answered, his voice wobbling, "Thank you, sir."
Cyrus ruffled his hair, his own voice gruff when he responded. "I ain't no 'sir,' son. Cyrus works jest fine for me, if your mom don't mind."
Kate's chest felt painfully full. "It's fine with me," she answered, her voice uneven. Afraid she was about to cry, she looked away, struggling with the tightness pressing down in her chest. The feeling was instantly neutralized and her stomach dropped when she saw Tanner standing just outside the stall, his face set in that inscrutable expression, the unexpected starkness in his eyes making her heart contract. Pain. And a terrible, terrible aloneness. Abruptly looking away, she stared unseeingly at her sons, feeling as if she'd just stumbled on to something so private, so personal, that it was as if she had trespassed emotionally. The sensation unnerved her, and she experienced the weirdest sensation in the pit of her stomach. For some reason she recalled Cyrus's comment about Tanner hiding out in this valley for twenty-eight years. A life sentence. Shaken by that unexpected thought, Kate looked away, a stark realization hitting her. Twenty-eight years. He must have been little more than a boy. And she knew, without a doubt, that whatever had brought him here had left some very deep scars. Scars that went soul deep.
"—now like I said, if it's okay with your mom, I'd like you boys to help me look after Bess and these here pups. You'll have to make sure she's got food and water, and she'll need to be brushed once in a while."
Mark stared at him, hardly able to believe his ears. "You mean it?"
"Yep. I do. But," Cyrus added, raising a finger, a warning tone in his voice, "you boys ain't to go into any of the corrals unless someone is with you, and you can't go into any of the box stalls except this one. The hands sometimes bring their horses in, and some of them are unpredictable cusses. And you ain't to touch anything unless you check with either Ross or me." The older man gave the boys a stern look. "Now, I need your word on this. We can't have you getting hurt because you didn't pay no mind."
Their eyes wide, they both nodded, their responses coming out in ragged counterpoint. "We promise."
He stared at the two of them, then spoke, a hint of humor in his tone. "Good." Placing his hands on his knees, he got slowly to his feet. Without looking at the door, he spoke. "You got anything to add here, boss?"
The two boys looked up, alarm in their eyes; they'd clearly been unaware of Tanner's presence. Standing with his arms folded, Tanner looked down at them. "No. That pretty much covers it."
At the sound of his voice, the dog bounded up, her eyes keen with alertness as she came over to him. Smiling a wry half smile, he reached down and scratched her ear, his voice gruff. "It's okay, girl. You've got a few days of maternity leave coming to you before we put you back to work."
Huddled in Burt's yellow slicker, Kate watched him, feeling as if everything had just been thrown out of sync. She had told him two days earlier that she wanted this to be their home. He had, in his own taciturn way, just permitted her two small sons a place in the bigger scheme of things on the Circle S. Her chest suddenly tight, she stuck her hands in the pockets of her slicker and looked down, raking the loose straw into a pile with her foot. Kate knew he didn't want them there, but that bleak look in his eyes did awful things to her heart, and she shivered, hurting for him. And not even knowing why.
* * *
Chapter 4
«^»
"Mom! Mom! You gotta come see! They're going to be bringing a whole bunch of cows through the pasture. And those big trucks – those cattle liners things are here and they're going to load 'em up. You gotta come see!"
Checking the oven setting, Kate shut the door and turned, heavin
g a sigh when she saw Mark. He and his brother had been out behind the cook house, shaking water off the trees, and, she suspected, sliding down the steep slope on pieces of plastic Cyrus had given them to waterproof their fort. His blond hair was soaked, with the moisture trickling down his face, and he was covered with mud and grass stains. He was so revved up on excitement that he could hardly stand still.
She met his gaze. "What are you talking about?"
"They're bringing the herd through. Cyrus says they can't take the trucks out to where they usually load 'em 'cuz it's too wet and they'll get stuck, so they're moving them up to the barn – so they can use that chute there. You gotta see it, Mom. It's going to be awesome."
Buddy, who was unloading supplies after a trip to town, set a box of groceries on the counter, wincing slightly as he jarred his shoulder. With only his upper arm strapped to his chest, he had the use of his arm from the elbow down, but Kate suspected carrying in boxes of groceries wasn't one of the prescribed exercises. She was about to scold him, but he gave her a sheepish grin. "My mama always said I was too stubborn for my own good." Shifting the sling, he cautiously rolled back his shoulder. "If you want to go with your boys to watch, I'll sit with Burt for a spell." He flashed her a broad grin. "Sometimes these range cows don't load worth s – ah, worth a dang, and it can get kinda interestin'. Last year one old whiteface tried to go through the chute and broke it all to hell … ah, excuse me, all to heck."
Kate wanted to go in the worst way, but she didn't feel right about leaving Buddy here to do her job. Except Burt was asleep, and she suspected the hired hand would be quite happy to sit up here with the TV remote control and endless sports channels.
"Come on, Mom. We can go over by the cook house and watch. There's an old picnic table there, and Cyrus said we could. He said for you to come."
It was the anxious, hopeful look in her son's eyes that made up her mind. "All right," she said, stripping off the towel she had tucked at her waist. She looked at Buddy. "If Burt wakes up, or if you have to leave, just phone down to the cook house, okay?"
"Will do, ma'am."
* * *
The ground was spongy, and the new leaves still glistened with beads of rain, but the thick, dense cloud cover had broken, allowing thin sunlight through. Her feet in a pair of Burt's rubber boots and wearing his slicker, Kate followed the boys down a trail through the trees along the brow of the hill. The tree bark was dark with rain, the tall grasses and low berry bushes shiny with moisture, and Kate inhaled deeply, the smell of rain and wet soil energizing her. The thick stands of spruce, aspen and poplar along the bluff were unusually quiet, the only sounds the swish of Kate's slicker against the long grass beside the trail and the soft, erratic tattoo of water dropping from the overhead branches. Huddled against the damp chill, Kate noticed a patch of wood violets among the undergrowth. She would have to remember where they were, so she could find them when they bloomed later in the summer. Again inhaling the fresh, clean fragrance of wet pine, damp soil and new growth, Kate ducked her head to avoid a low hanging branch, shivering when cold beads of water hit the back of her neck.
She had no misconceptions about this being the shortest route to the cook house. It wasn't. But it did skirt the barn and the corrals, and it offered a fantastic view of the mountains through the trees. It was so beautiful and wild and unspoiled, but then, most of the land on the Circle S was – right from the open rangeland to the wilderness of the foothills. God's land, Burt called it. Kate couldn't have agreed more. She loved it.
Cyrus was just coming out of the cook house carrying a large thermos when they reached the last jog in the trail. He was wearing a tattered slicker with a battered hat pulled low over his eyes, and he had his pants tucked into his boots. He set the thermos on the steps, pulled off his hat, spat on the ground, then grinned at them. "Well, howdy, Miz Quinn. Glad you could make it. This is always good for a show."
Tucking a stray curl back into the loose knot on top of her head, Kate grinned back at him. "So I hear. Buddy just came back with the supplies, so he offered to stay for a while."
The twinkle in Cyrus's eyes intensified. "Must be a baseball game on. I tell you, that boy's baseball crazy." He waved his hat at the weathered picnic table at the front of the cook house. "You jest plunk yourselves down here. Best seat in the house."
Kate ducked under a moisture-laden fir bough. "Will I be able to hear the phone from out here? I told Buddy to call down here if he needs me."
Cyrus motioned to Mark. "How about you skedaddle in and open the window for your mom and set the phone on the sill? Then we can hear it jest fine." He swiped most of the water off the plank seat with his hat, then waved her over. "Have a seat. I got a fresh pot of coffee brewing, so we'll nip into that as soon as it's done."
Stepping over the cross brace on the table, Kate sat down beside him, her spirits buoyed by the view. They were looking down the throat of a heavily treed pass to the mountains beyond, with the valley opening up to the rolling pastureland surrounding the ranch site. She took another deep, invigorating breath. God, but it smelled wonderful.
Cyrus shot her a sly grin. "Sounds like you've got yourself a fair slice of contentment there, Miz Quinn."
She gave him an amused look. "You could say that." Bracing her elbows on the table, she stared across the scene before her. "Actually," she said softly, "I love it. It's so beautiful around here."
Cyrus nodded in agreement. "Gets in your blood, it does. I've been in these here parts for fifty-eight years – my folks moved out when I was just a tad about Mark's age. Never been anywheres else, and don't have any urging to go anywheres else."
Kate could understand that completely. They fell into a companionable silence as Mark and Scott took turns swinging on the tire swing that Cyrus had rigged up in one of the massive cottonwoods. Kate shifted her gaze when she heard a diesel engine fire up, and with her chin propped in her hand, she watched one of the big cattle liners pull around, then back up to a chute by the big corral. She observed the maneuvering for a moment, then glanced at Cyrus. "Do you always sell cattle this time of year?"
He pulled down the brim of his hat and shrugged. "Depends. They always cull out the cows that don't drop calves – ain't no point in keeping them. But Tanner's culling 'em out now and shipping 'em off because beef prices are up a bit. He's shipping a few steers, as well – some of the ones we kept over the winter at the feedlot at the other place." He shook his head, giving a wry snort. "You jest watch. Next, week the prices will be down a few cents a hundredweight jest like he figures, which don't seem like much when you think of a thousand-pound cow. But multiply it by a couple of hundred cows and Ol' Tanner will make a fair bit of change. Tickles me, it does, the way he outsmarts 'em."
Kate studied his profile, contemplating what he'd said. "You said something about a feed lot at the other place. What other place?"
Cyrus waved his hand in an easterly direction. "Out east about eight miles – four, as the crow flies. A fella had a big feedlot set up over there – computerized grain mills, big silos, the works – but he got hisself in trouble with the bank three or four years back, couldn't make a go of it with the cost of borrowed money and what it cost him for steers to fatten. Anyhow, Tanner figured since the Circle S had a ready supply of steers, he could make a clean profit, so he bought him out. He kept him on to run the place – first time Tom Benson had any real money in his pocket. Anyhow, Tanner turned it into a regular gold mine – drying, bagging and selling steer manure to greenhouses – got a regular manufacturin' operation going over there. And them city folk buy it by the truckload. Them steers is here because the road to the feedlot is all tore up. The county is fixing the grade, and it ain't nothing but a big soup hole with all this rain, so the boss had 'em moved over here day afore yesterday."
Tanner appeared around the front of the idling cattle liner, riding the big bay gelding Kate had seen in the barn. The horse pranced along, its neck arched and head tucked, its hide gleaming i
n the watery sunlight. His head bent, Tanner was shaking out the lariat on the far side of the horse, the reins looped loosely around the horn of the saddle. The animal tossed its head and danced sideways, and Kate heard Tanner speak to him. He rode with the loose-body ease of a man who'd spent a good portion of his life in the saddle, his black hat and his long oiled canvas drover's coat making him appear dark and dangerous. A funny feeling unfolded in her middle when she realized there was a rifle in the rifle scabbard. She would be willing to bet that Tanner McCall knew how to use it.
A gust of wind whipped through the branches overhead, sending a cold sprinkling of water down on Kate, and she shivered. But the shiver had little to do with the cold and everything to do with the man riding toward the cross-poled pasture gate. Dark and dangerous – and solitary. Always alone, always apart from his men, barricaded behind his cool aloofness. But she had seen the bleakness in his eyes, and that altered everything.
Her expression solemn, she watched him recoil the rope and settle it over the saddle horn. Picking up the reins, he nudged his mount over to the gate. Leaning down, he unhooked the chain, and the heavy gate swung open. Making it look much easier than it was, he closed the gate without dismounting; then, pulling the brim of his hat low over his eyes, he cued the gelding with a touch of his spurs. The muscles bunched in the animal's hindquarters as it responded to Tanner's signal, and in two strides it was in a ground-eating canter. She watched him ride off, so aware of the solitary rider that she experienced a peculiar heaviness in her chest.
"A good man, Tanner," Cyrus said quietly.
Surprised by his comment, she shot him a quick glance. He, too, was watching the horse and rider in the distance, his face solemn, but there was a look of sober recollection in his expression that made her pause. Feeling as if she'd just stumbled onto something private and personal, she looked away, suddenly heavy-hearted and not knowing why.
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