This Calder Range

by Janet Dailey

  “Janes!” Bull shouted the challenge and fired.

  A gun cracked behind Benteen, and he whirled to face Loman Janes. In the span of slow seconds, he thought of Lorna and home as he fired his gun. He watched Janes’s gun kick up from its first shot that went wide with Benteen’s turning. The barrel steadied on him again as Benteen fired the second time and heard his shot strike home.

  There was a quick, small cough from Janes. Surprise went through his eyes as he began to tip backward. He fell against the rain barrel and slowly slid to the ground.

  The echoes of the shots faded away and the street became quiet. It was over. Fatigue ran deep into his bones. With the pistol still in his hand, Benteen gripped his left arm, throbbing from the wound in his shoulder. He swayed and staggered into the street. Dully he was aware of people filtering cautiously out of buildings, but all he wanted was to go home—to Lorna.

  A wagon clattered up the street. Benteen stopped in irritation to let it pass, but its team was halted before it reached him. His weary gaze thought it watched Lorna springing from the wagon seat. When her hands touched his face, he realized it was really her.

  “What are you doing here?” The rasping tiredness was in his voice, but his eyes were alive to her.

  “I couldn’t wait any longer.” She was checking him over, inspecting his wounds with her hands and her eyes.

  “Take me home,” he said.

  “I’m taking you to the doctor first,” she insisted.

  Then he remembered something that was important —the way Giles had stepped out and drawn Janes’s fire after the man had sneaked around the building.

  “I think Giles took a bullet meant for me,” he said. “Go see how he is.”

  “But—”

  “I’m all right,” Benteen assured her.

  Lorna half-turned and ordered, “Barnie, get him to a doctor.” Then she hurried across the street.

  Bull was lying on the ground, propped against the sidewalk. There was a ghastly pallor to his face, and his left knee was soaked with blood. His right arm was held awkwardly across his stomach while blood stained his sleeve.

  When Lorna knelt down beside him, Bull looked at her and smiled weakly. “He sent you here, didn’t he?”

  “Yes,” she admitted, and bent to look at the wound in his knee. It was a shattered, pulpy mess.

  “It looks like it was a good thing I got some practice drivin’ a buggy for Lady Crawford. That’s about all I’ll be ridin’ from now on,” Bull said, acknowledging it was a crippling wound.

  “We’ll get you to the doctor. It’s amazing the things they can do nowadays.” But she knew that he was right.

  “You love him, don’t you?”

  “Yes.” It was the way she said it, the look in her eyes, that convinced him.

  “You’ll always be a special woman to me, Lorna,” Bull said quietly. “But I reckon that’s all.”

  “You’ll always be very special to me—and to Benteen, too, I think,” she added. Townspeople began gathering around. Lorna motioned to two stronglooking men. “Help me get him to the doctor.”

  30

  When Benteen awakened, there was sunlight streaming through the window. He had trouble focusing his eyes, the room kept blurring. There was a sharply antiseptic smell around him. It was a minute before he realized he was on a cot in the doctor’s office. He tried to move, and a stab of pain seared from his shoulder, evoking a grimacing groan.

  “Lie still.” It was Lorna’s voice, and her hand that gently touched his arm.

  His gaze wandered over the face that was now within his vision. She was dark—and vivid, her lips red and warm for him. He caught the fragrance of her, so fresh and wild.

  “I thought you were going to take me home,” he reminded her.

  “The doctor thought it would be a good idea if you spent the night here. He gave you something to sleep while he dug out the bullet.” She showed him the slug that had come from his shoulder. “Do you want to keep it?”

  “No. You can throw it away.” He pressed a hand to his bandaged shoulder. “I don’t need anything to remember this by.”

  Lorna couldn’t have agreed more, and gladly tossed the bullet in a waste receptacle. She didn’t want to ever live through that moment again when she had seen Benteen staggering across the street.

  “What about the others? Giles. Woolie.” Concern tracked across his expression, drawing heavy lines.

  “Woolie’s horse was shot out from under him. He has a broken leg. Jessie was creased in the arm, and Bob Vernon got shot in the hand.” Lorna listed the injuries, then hesitated on the last one. “Bull had his knee shattered. The doctor says he’ll be all right, but he’ll never be able to bend it again. It’ll be stiff.”

  Benteen sighed, but said nothing, aware of the debt he owed the man. “Is Boston dead?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s crazy,” he murmured on a faraway note. “They always say people who live by the gun die by it. Boston did his taking with legal papers, not bullets. A nonviolent thief. But he died violently just the same.”

  There was a light rap at the door. Lorna turned, not leaving his bedside. “Yes?”

  The door opened and Lady Crawford swirled into the room in her long black satin skirts. She was the model of composure as she crossed the room to the cot. Black gloves gripped the pearl handle of her parasol.

  “So you were the one doing all that shooting last night,” she said to Benteen in mild accusation. “I complained bitterly to the management about the disturbance. It did little good, of course.” She paused briefly. “How are you feeling?”

  “I’ll feel better when I’m back at the ranch,” Benteen said, and linked his fingers with Lorna’s.

  “I’m sure your wife is capable of nursing you, although I don’t envy her the task,” Elaine stated. “As for myself, I’m leaving for Helena. The territorial governor has invited me to spend a few days with his family. It should prove to be a valuable trip, I believe.”

  “Yes, it should be,” Benteen agreed, but Lorna caught the resignation in his voice.

  “Perhaps you’ll be well enough to go with me another time,” Elaine suggested absently. “There’s a lot of groundwork that needs to be done, and I’m certainly not needed here, when you have Lorna to take care of you.”

  “That’s true,” he agreed again.

  “Unfortunately, it will be a few days before Mr. Giles is up and around, so I’m forced to travel alone. Hopefully he’ll be able to resume his duties in a couple of weeks. I looked in on him briefly,” she admitted.

  “I’m glad to hear he’ll be getting better.” Benteen glanced at Lorna, no longer feeling threatened by her friendship with Bull Giles, as he had proved last night when he’d sent her to him.

  “I’m sure you don’t feel like talking business,” Elaine continued. “And I have a great deal of packing to do. I only stopped to let you know where I’ll be. I’ll contact you when I return.”

  Lorna was beginning to understand his mother’s seemingly cool attitude, so brisk and efficient. A mother would be concerned about her child’s illness or injury, and reluctant to leave him when he was unwell. But Lady Crawford was showing neither emotion. Purposely. She felt a surge of admiration and respect for the woman.

  “By the way …” Elaine paused in her turn away from his bed. “I have lodged a formal complaint with the Canadian government on your behalf, because of the cattle stolen by Indians from their reservations. I am quite sure that you will soon be recompensed for your losses.”

  Benteen raised an eyebrow to register mild surprise and pleasure. “That’s good news.”

  “I thought you’d say that.” Elaine smiled. “I must go. Take care of yourself.”

  With parasol in hand, she glided to the door. Lorna unlinked her fingers from Benteen’s grasp. “I’ll be back in a minute,” she promised, and hurried after Lady Crawford. She carefully closed the door behind her.

  “Did you want something?�
�� Lady Crawford inquired with a regal tilt to her head.

  “I wanted to thank you,” Lorna admitted.

  “Thank me?”

  “Yes, for what you did in there—the impression you left with Benteen.” She regarded the woman warmly, because it had been a very generous thing to do.

  “Yes, well … you were quite right, you know,” Lady Crawford said, and made a study of smoothing the gloves on her hand. “There is one thing that I can’t give him … but there are other dreams that I can fulfill.”

  “Thank you,” Lorna repeated.

  “Nonsense.” She dismissed the expression of gratitude. “Don’t forget, I shall profit enormously from the association.”

  She moved toward the front door before Lorna could say anything else. But it had all been said. Lorna slowly turned and went back into the room where Benteen was. She found him sitting on the edge of the cot, swaying unsteadily.

  “Chase Benteen Calder, what are you doing?” She hurried over to help him.

  “We’re going home, aren’t we?” he said, then turned a questioning eye on her. “What did you have to talk to Lady Crawford about?”

  “It was nothing.” Lorna helped him on with his shirt. “She returned something, and I wanted to thank her for it.”

  Three weeks later the first shipment of furniture arrived for the new house. Included was the big desk for the study. Lorna halted the workmen and had them uncrate the desk and carry it into the study. She hung the map on the wall behind it, and put Benteen’s ranch papers in the drawers. There were a couple of chairs that belonged in the living room, but she arranged them in the study in front of the huge fireplace.

  When she heard Webb galloping across the porch to greet his father at the steps, Lorna slipped out of the room to meet him in the entryway. His shoulder was still stiff and sore from the wound, and he was leaner, but there wasn’t any doubt that he was back in full control of the Calder Cattle Company.

  Webb was riding on his hip. Benteen swung him to the floor as they entered the house. His gaze went to Lorna, sweeping over her in that intimate way that always sent her pulse chasing after itself.

  “Supper ready?” he asked.

  “I haven’t even started it,” Lorna admitted, then laughed and grabbed his hand, tugging it like a child. “There’s something I want to show you.”

  With barely contained excitement, she led him to the study doors, opened them, and stepped into the room. She made a whirling pivot to watch his reaction as his gaze traveled around the room.

  “Part of the furniture arrived after you left this morning. I’ve had the workmen busy ever since, uncrating it and getting it arranged,” she explained.

  “The map.” He noticed it and smiled at her. “I like that.” He wandered over to the cavernous stone fireplace. “The mantel needs something.”

  “I was thinking that myself.” She bit at the inside of her lip, then walked calmly over to a desk drawer and took out the daguerreotype of his mother when she was young. “Would you want to put this on it?”

  She handed it to him, and watched him study it. There was a rush of conflicting emotions across his ruggedly planed features. His chest lifted on a deep breath as he looked at her.

  “No.” He slowly shook his head. “Put it away somewhere if you want.”

  There was nothing left of the old dream, or the old bitterness. Lady Crawford and the image in the picture were two different things, separated in his mind. Lorna crossed the room and put her arms around his middle.

  “You knew that, didn’t you?” Benteen murmured against her hair.

  “I hoped that all the ghosts were gone,” she admitted. “She couldn’t be what you wanted.”

  A chuckle came from his throat. “Can you imagine Webb calling her grandmother? She’d be horrified.” He lifted his head to look at her, linking his hands at the small of her back to mold her against the lower half of his body. “Speaking of Webb, you don’t think you could persuade your son to go out and play for another hour?”

  “An hour?” she murmured provocatively. “You’re not bragging much.”

  “You sassy little—” He wasn’t allowed to finish the rest, as she pulled his head down to kiss him.

  Epilogue

  From free grass to fences,

  A lotta things have passed,

  But one thing that’s for certain

  This Calder range will last.

  1902

  In the early morning light, Benteen led the two saddled horses to the camp. When Lorna saw him coming, she shook the coffee dregs from the tin mug and left them in the wreck pan by the chuck wagon. It wasn’t as good as Rusty’s coffee had been. She smiled briefly at the thin man named Bogie who had taken his place. She missed the irascible, white-whiskered cook. There wasn’t anyone to tell her where she should look for the “wildflowers” growing. He had died peacefully in his sleep one night—just slipped away. She regretted that she hadn’t told him how much she liked him, but it always seemed there was time.

  Conscious of Benteen’s gaze on her, Lorna shook off the faint sadness and smiled. His eyes darkened as they ran over her. A pair of pants fit snugly over her hips, softly curved hips created for a man’s pleasure by the wise Maker. The denim material was new and stiff, making a rustling noise as she walked to meet him. She was just as slender and beautiful as the day he’d married her, although considerably more experienced, Benteen thought with a hint of a smile.

  He handed her the reins to a blaze-faced roan, observing, “I think you come on these roundups just so you have an excuse to wear pants.” He liked her in them, but it wasn’t something he intended to admit to her.

  “I think you asked me to come just so you can see me wearing them,” Lorna returned saucily, and hopped to step her foot in the stirrup, swinging easily into the saddle.

  It was a movement Benteen watched over the seat of his saddle, enjoying the way the material stretched to outline her firm buttocks. She continued to stir him, as nature had intended from their first mating.

  Benteen mounted his horse. “I should have made you take those things off the first time you put them on instead of thinking it was going to be a temporary thing. Give a woman an inch, and she takes a mile.” But he smiled when he said it. “You do know everyone in the Stockmen’s Association talks about the way you ride around like a man?”

  “I don’t know why they should talk,” Lorna declared. “I’m not the only woman who rides astride.”

  “But you’re the only one who does it wearing pants,” he pointed out, and turned his horse toward the gathering pens. “All the rest have split riding skirts.”

  “Are you trying to tell me what to wear, Benteen Calder?” she challenged.

  “It wouldn’t do any good. You’d do just as you damn please, the way you’ve always done,” he replied dryly.

  “Not always,” Lorna corrected, because there was a time when other people’s opinions had mattered. “This land taught me to be independent.”

  They rode out to where the cowboys were making the spring gather. The Hereford cattle being rounded up had shiny white-faced calves at their sides. The gate was opened so another small bunch could be driven in to add to the growing number inside the pens. Benteen and Lorna reined to one side to watch.

  The Triple C brand was a burned mark on the rust-red flanks of the cows. Lorna felt a sense of pride and achievement whenever she saw it. She cast a brief glance at Benteen, while the bulk of her attention remained on the wild rangeland that they owned.

  “Do you feel like a cattle baron?” There was a smile in her voice—she was aware the term irritated him.

  “Nobody ever says ‘cattle baron’ without saying ‘greedy cattle baron.’” He rose to her baiting tone. “It’s something I’ll never understand. It’s always the homesteading farmer with his little wife who gets all the sympathy and support for the hardships and struggles he’s gone through. They always make out that the big cattle ranchers are some kind of feudal lords.
They don’t take into account the struggles and hardships we endured to have what we now possess.”

  “You told me a long time ago it’s human nature to want what someone else has,” Lorna reminded him.

  “Yes. But someday people will have to recognize the cowboy. Nobody had a lonelier, harder job, not even the farmer. The hours are long, the working conditions usually poor, and all he has for company is a horse. We were here before there were towns and people—when there were just prairie dogs and Indians. We built something where there was nothing, and now we’re condemned for it.” There was disgust and impatience in his voice.

  “That’s because they think we are somehow to blame for the high price of beef at the stores,” she said. “When they’re trying to feed their family, they aren’t interested in the bad years we’ve had—the droughts, the blizzards.”

  “The winter of 1886-1887 was the worst, coming right after a summer drought that left the range in bad shape,” Benteen remembered with a grim look. “A lot of ranches went under after that.”

  Lorna recalled the year that had nearly crushed them along with so many others. After deep snows fell in late November, the chinook had come in early January to give them hope. But it had turned bitter cold. The partially melted snow had turned into an armor of ice that hooves couldn’t break through to reach the grass. Frozen and starved cattle had died by the thousands.

  It had been a severe blow. The previous year, they had branded nearly ten thousand calves at spring roundup, but after that killing winter there were only twelve hundred calves branded. A lot of ranchers had gotten discouraged and quit or lost their financial backing.

  Benteen had figured the tremendous loss of cattle would create a shortage of beef at the market and drive the price up. He took what cash reserve they had and partially restocked the herd. Then he’d sent Shorty Niles to Canada to purchase some draft horses and turned fertile bottomlands into hay. Shorty had come back with the horses and the farmer’s daughter as his wife.