This Calder Range

by Janet Dailey

  “Really,” Lorna murmured, unaware the number was so large. She opened her cloth purse. “How much do I owe you?”

  “I’ll just put it on your account,” he replied.

  She hadn’t known Benteen had set up an account at the store. It was something else he had omitted telling her, but she didn’t let on to the storekeeper.

  “Of course.” She smiled thinly.

  “I’ll carry this out to the wagon for you.” The fat-man picked up the box, puffing at the slightest exertion, and waddled out from behind the counter. “Did someone ride in with you?”

  “Yes. Mr. Willis is at the smithy’s. One of the team threw a shoe on the way here,” Lorna explained why Woolie wasn’t with her now. She turned to the two boys, busily sucking on their candy. “Come on, boys. Let’s go outside to the wagon.”

  In addition to the general store and saloon, the town of Blue Moon boasted a blacksmith’s and wheelwright’s shop, too, and two cabins to house the Fitzsimmons family and the smithy—a man named Dan Long. Traffic had worn away the grass in front of the two businesses, exposing the hard earth and creating a short street of sorts. Three sets of rutted tracks fanned out from it and disappeared over the rolling plains.

  Their wagon stood outside, with only one horse standing in the traces. A blacksmith’s hammer sounded out rhythmically in the summer afternoon.

  “If you would put the box in the wagon, Mr. Fitzsimmons,” Lorna requested, “I’ll let Mr. Willis know that we can leave whenever he’s ready.”

  “Of course, Mrs. Calder,” he agreed.

  While he puffed his way to the back of the wagon, Lorna took Arthur by the hand to walk to the blacksmith’s shop. Webb skipped a few paces ahead of her, then stopped abruptly to point.

  “Look at that wagon, Mommy!”

  “It’s a carriage, not a wagon,” she corrected, seeing it almost at the same moment her son did. It was a fancy carriage, too, all enclosed and brightly painted. She had not seen anything remotely like it since leaving Texas. It more than piqued her curiosity.

  “What’s a carriage?” Webb frowned.

  She laughed at his question. “You’re looking at one.”

  “Oh,” he said, and ran ahead for a closer look.

  It gave Lorna an excellent excuse to satisfy her curiosity and venture nearer after Webb instead of going directly to find Woolie Willis. A pair of matched sorrels with flaxen mane and tail were in the corral adjoining the smithy’s shop. They had to be the team that pulled the exquisitely built carriage. Lorna had a glimpse of seats covered with red leather, but Webb was trying to climb inside to see what it was like.

  “You mustn’t climb on other people’s property,” she admonished, and dragged him from the step-up.

  “But I wanta see inside,” he protested.

  She heard footsteps coming around the carriage and saw a pair of booted feet before the man walked out from behind the vehicle. Her eyes widened in surprise, because she had expected it to be the owner of the carriage. Instead it was Bull Giles.

  “Mr. Giles.” She smiled widely in recognition. “It’s good to see you again.”

  “Lorna.” He took off his hat and held it in front of him. He seemed to stare at her for the longest time.

  She was a little shaken by the raw yearning in his eyes and the liberty he had taken by using her given name. She tried to cover the sudden awkwardness she felt. “Did you just arrive from Texas with another herd?”

  Bull Giles seemed to straighten a little, and the look went away. “No. As a matter of fact, I didn’t leave last fall.”

  “You didn’t? I hadn’t seen you in some time, so I just supposed …” She was at a loss for something to say.

  “I saw your husband here last fall. Didn’t he mention it to you?” He knew the answer even as he asked the question.

  “He must have forgotten,” Lorna weakly tried to defend Benteen.

  “I’m sure he did,” Bull Giles agreed dryly.

  “I guess you’ve been working on one of the ranches,” she realized. “For the Ten Bar again?”

  “In a way. They hired me to spend the winter hunting wolves. Your husband knew that, too,” he added deliberately, to let her know that Benteen had been well acquainted with his activities.

  “I see,” Lorna murmured. In the initial surprise of seeing Bull Giles again, she had let go of Webb’s arm. His interest in the big man had quickly waned and he was back at the carriage, scrambling to climb inside. “Webb, come away from there.”

  “It’s all right, Mrs. Calder. He can’t do any harm,” Bull said.

  “The owner might not think so.” She caught hold of Webb’s arm again and pulled him down. Little Arthur started crying because he dropped his candy on the ground.

  Crouching down, Bull Giles picked up the stick of candy and brushed the worst of the dirt from it, then offered it to the boy. When Lorna started to protest, he glanced at her and smiled. “A little dirt won’t hurt him.”

  “Okay,” she gave in. When she let go of Arthur’s hand, he toddled unabashedly over to the muscled stranger. Once he had the stick of candy back in his mouth, Arthur stayed there to study him.

  “He looks a lot like you.” There was a softness in the tough man’s eyes when he finally lifted his glance from the boy to Lorna. “What’s his name?”

  “Arthur—after my father,” she added for no reason that she could explain.

  “Why can’t I get in the carriage, Mommy?” Webb wanted to know.

  “You can.” Bull slowly straightened and moved to the older boy. “I’ll lift you in.”

  “But—” Lorna began.

  “It’s all right,” he assured her again. “One of the bolts was sheared off the other day. I brought it in to have Dan repair it.”

  A little frown ran across her forehead. “This carriage belongs to the Ten Bar?”

  “No,” Bull laughed shortly. “Not even Judd Boston owns anything like this.”

  “But I thought you just said you were working for them.” She was becoming confused.

  “I did last winter,” he replied.

  “Well, then, who does this carriage belong to?” Lorna moved closer to the vehicle, which automatically brought her nearer to Bull Giles.

  “I hired out a couple weeks ago to a party of English gentry, acting as a guide and escort. It belongs to them,” he explained as his attention became riveted on her face. A small hand tugged on his pants leg, dragging his gaze downward to Arthur. “You want to sit in the carriage with your brother, don’t you?” Bull guessed, and Arthur nodded vigorously.

  “English gentry,” Lorna repeated as he lifted Arthur into the carriage. “Do you mean they have titles?”

  “Yes. Every time you say anything, you have to add ‘your lordship’ or ‘your ladyship.’” He seemed to express Benteen’s mocking derision of all the pomp that surrounded the European titled class.

  It seemed impossible, yet Lorna couldn’t help wondering, “One of them wouldn’t happen to be Lady Crawford?” she asked.

  His brow shot up in surprise. “How did you know that?” Then he appeared to doubt that they meant the same person. “She’s an older woman, with yellow-white hair.”

  “That sounds like her.” Lorna couldn’t believe it. “I met her in Dodge City—the same day you and I had lunch. She was very kind. She even had her maid bring me some lotion to make my skin soft.” She absently ran a hand over her cheek in a gesture of remembrance of the gift. “And you say she’s a member of this party you’re escorting?”

  “From what I can gather, she’s a chaperon or companion to one of the younger women who’s engaged to the duke,” he explained.

  “I never did get a chance to personally thank her for the lotion.” Lorna sighed, then laughed softly at herself. “She probably doesn’t even remember it.”

  “I’ll mention it to her,” Bull said.

  “It’s hardly important.” But Lorna hoped he would.

  “Mrs. Calder?” Woolie Willis
came around the carriage, leading the second horse of the team. “It’ll just take me a couple of minutes to hitch this horse up and we’ll be ready to go.”

  “We’ll be there directly,” she promised. As he led the horse to their wagon, Lorna turned to her two sons, bouncing on the carriage seats. “That’s all, boys. We have to go now.”

  “Not yet, Mommy.” Webb frowned and stubbornly moved out of her reach.

  “Do as your mother tells you,” Bull ordered. “Come on. I’ll lift you out.”

  Neither child was inclined to argue with the big stranger. Arthur was the first to come forward and let the large pair of hands pick him up. He squealed with delight when Bull lifted him high in the air before setting him on the ground.

  “Do me like that,” Webb insisted when it was his turn to be lifted out.

  Once Webb was set down, there was an immediate clamor from both boys for Bull to do it again. Lorna was afraid Bull might allow himself to be cajoled into a repeat, so she stepped in.

  “No more,” she refused, taking each of them by the hand. “It’s getting late and we have to be back to the ranch in time to fix Daddy’s supper.” There were wrinkled noses and quiet grumbles, but no outright rebellion. “All the men at the ranch make such a fuss over them that they’ve become a little spoiled,” Lorna admitted to Bull.

  “They’re nice boys.” He rumpled Webb’s dark hair with affection.

  “I wike you,” Arthur said, tipping his head way back to look at the stranger.

  “I like you, too,” Bull replied with a slight gruffness in his voice.

  “You’re very good with children,” Lorna remarked. “You should get married and have some of your own.” “That isn’t likely to happen,” he said, “considering the only girl I ever wanted to marry is somebody else’s wife.” His bold gaze made it clear that he was referring to her.

  “Please don’t say things like that, Mr. Giles,” Lorna insisted awkwardly, because it couldn’t be unsaid, or forgotten. “It makes it impossible for us to even be friends.”

  He breathed in deeply and released it in a quick sigh. “My apologies, Mrs. Calder.”

  All she could do was nod and murmur a “good day.” With the boys in hand, she turned and walked to the waiting wagon.

  22

  Canvas tents were clustered together like so many giant mushrooms erupting out of the stark, lonely plains. Not far from the stretch of river where the tents and assorted wagons sat, a herd of horses grazed under the watchful eye of a wrangler. Longeared mules and powerfully muscled draft horses browsed side by side with sleek thoroughbreds, intermingling and sharing the food feast in a classless way that the people occupying the tents regarded as unthinkable for themselves.

  “Don’t you find this all so exciting and adventurous, Lady Crawford?” declared Penelope Dunshill, daughter of the present Earl of Crawford and the future wife to the Duke of Middleton. The high-spirited brunette didn’t possess any real beauty, but her vivacity made it appear she was attractive. “I want to mount my horse and gallop madly over this melancholy land.” The instant the desire was expressed, she turned eagerly from the awesome expanse of rolling grassland to her companion. “Let’s go riding.”

  “No.” Elaine Dunshill adjusted the black parasol to the other shoulder to keep the sun off her relatively unlined face. “Even you would wilt in this heat, Penelope, and George has a lavish dinner planned for this evening so we all can sample the wild game he shot this morning. He will be greatly disappointed if his future bride is too enervated to enjoy it.” That should have been sufficient argument against it, but for good measure she added, “Our guide is away from camp getting the carriage repaired. A person can become too easily lost in this country without a native to show the way. I suggest you lie down and rest for a couple of hours instead.”

  “If you insist.” The long sigh that accompanied the agreement was an exaggerated show of unwillingness.

  When they paused in front of Penelope’s tent, her personal maid appeared instantly. Counting the guide, horse handlers, cook, maids, and valets, there was a retinue of twelve to serve the English party of six. Yet, they were supposedly “roughing it.” Elaine smiled to herself each time the thought occurred to her.

  It was practically the only amusement she found in this tour of the “real” American West. Con’s death had diminished the role she played in London society and politics. She made a striking figure in black, a color she continued to wear even after the year’s mourning had passed, but she was the wife of a dead earl, no longer sought for the influence she no longer had. Despite her personal and inherited wealth, she had been relegated to dowager status.

  She chafed under the loss of power and prestige that had her playing companion and chaperon to an empty-headed girl who found more excitement in a mad gallop across the plains than in making money and manipulating people. The only alternative to her present position was to receive no invitations and retire to some country manor. And that would be infinitely more galling.

  With her charge whisked into the tent by the maid, Elaine continued on, but not to her own tent. She wanted to have a word with her host, the Duke of Middleton, and find out how soon they would resume their travel. In truth, part of the appeal that had prompted Elaine to accept the invitation to come on this trip as her niece’s companion had occurred when George—the Duke of Middleton—had mentioned they would be touring the northern territories, including Montana. Elaine had been intrigued by the possibility of chancing across her son, Benteen Calder, and discovering whether he had made use of the potential she’d seen in him. But this territory was big, and so far she’d not heard his name mentioned. Not that it was important; she admitted to only an idle curiosity about him.

  When she neared the center tent, Elaine noticed the horse and buggy out front, and recognized it as belonging to Judd Boston, a banker turned rancher. Their camp was located on his range, so he had become a frequent visitor. As a matter of fact, it was he who had recommended their present guide when George had dismissed the previous one for drunkenness. Although Elaine had little personal contact with the banker, she suspected that he was deliberately trying to keep their party on his land for some purpose of his own.

  At the sound of voices coming through the canvas walls of the tent, Elaine had no qualms about eavesdropping on the conversation between this Judd Boston and her host. There had been occasions in the past when she had picked up valuable information in the same manner.

  “I am confident this will prove to be a very profitable investment for you.” It was the man Judd Boston talking. Although he claimed to be Texan, he didn’t possess the accent. Elaine briefly thought it might be interesting to delve into his background. “This partnership of ours will be highly successful. There’s a lot of money to be made in cattle, especially if a man has not only financial backing but also important connections in government. With your financial support and my connections, our company will have both.”

  “The Duchess Land and Cattle Company. It has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?” George declared in his haughty, boasting voice. “My future bride is so taken with this country. I’m certain she shall adore having a ranch named after her.”

  “An excellent engagement present,” Boston agreed, but Elaine caught a trace of cynicism in his tone.

  Now she understood his game. He had kept the party here in order to persuade the Duke of Middleton to invest some of his considerable fortune in his ranch, as so many other members of European royalty had done recently. Fools, Elaine thought. They had no knowledge of the vagaries of ranching in the West. Droughts, blizzards, disease, not to mention fluctuating cattle markets. Money could be made. Yes, a lot of it. But not as easily as men like Judd Boston proclaimed. Absentee owners and partners were begging to be fleeced and bilked of their moneys.

  “This is prime range,” Boston was saying. “You can search the whole of Montana and find none better.”

  From what Elaine had seen of it, there was a cr
itical lack of water to sustain a large herd, certainly anything the size Boston had indicated he was bringing up the trail from Texas. Water had been the one asset Seth Calder possessed, but he had always been too conservative in everything he did. “Growing slowly,” he had called it, and Elaine had seen the months slip into years with no discernible improvements in their standard of living.

  “What was this you mentioned about three claims you—or rather we—would be able to assume?” George corrected himself and emphasized his participation.

  “Before the government will deed land to an individual, it requires that improvements be made. As I mentioned, there are three claims that don’t fulfill the requirements. I have a ‘friend’ in the land office that will throw out the claims at the proper time, leaving it open for us.” There was a slight pause before Boston continued. “You realize, of course, that the information must be kept strictly confidential. We wouldn’t want the owner of the Triple C to discover our plans and meet the conditions.”

  “I’ll not breathe a word,” George promised, at the same time slightly affronted by and enthusiastic about their clandestine activities. “You will join us for dinner tonight, Boston. That Mr. Giles you recommended is a marvelous guide. This evening we will be feasting on game that I personally shot—game that our guide led me to. I should like you to share in the spoils of the hunt and celebrate our new partnership.”

  “It would be my pleasure, sir,” Judd Boston accepted the invitation.

  “I am sure you would like to rest and freshen up before dinner.” There was the sound of snapping fingers. “I’ll have Barton show you where you may stay.”

  With the meeting brought to an end, Elaine assumed a strolling pace that brought her to the front of the tent as the valet lifted the netting to guide Boston out. She nodded to him and he politely tipped his hat, making a slight bow at the waist. While he walked away, she paused, aware the Duke of Middleton was alone in his tent, and debated whether she should speak to him as planned.

  But the turn of events had stimulated her mind. It seemed much less imperative that the party resume its journey. So she returned to her own private tent and dismissed her maid. Merely as a mental exercise, she began imagining what she would do with a ranch in Montana—where and how money could be made. Most of the beef was sold for shipment to Eastern cattle markets, which put the rancher at the mercy of their prices. How could that be controlled? A rancher could sell directly to the U.S. government.