by Jo Goodman
She supposed she could have dug in her heels and absolutely refused to leave, but Connor's high-handed tactics made it unwise. After he had everything packed, he picked Dancer up and carried him to the travois. Maggie, if she was really going to take care of the prospector until his leg mended, had little choice but to follow. Her herbs and medicines might have been another sticking point, but Connor had carefully packed all of the jars and bottles she had collected and prepared with Dancer's help. He had even gone to the garden to take fresh plants. Connor promised to send one of his hands the following day for the items they couldn't take with them. Maggie noticed that he had everything very well planned, a fact she mentioned several times. Connor was right to note that her observation was more suspicious than complimentary. He merely responded with an enigmatic smile that suited his dark and distant expression.
They followed the stream north, veering left each time it forked. Connor stopped frequently, as much for Maggie's comfort as Dancer's, and he kept the pace slow. Though he had said he wanted to reach the Double H by noon, Maggie realized he had only used that to move them along. Except for the acknowledgement that she and Dancer needed to rest, Maggie thought her husband approached their journey with the same single-mindedness he might have had for a cattle drive.
It was the middle of the afternoon by the time they arrived at the threshold of the valley. Connor held his horse and let Maggie draw up to his side. He said nothing. His ranch would rise or fall in her estimation on its own merit.
Maggie had no expectations concerning the Double H. She had never thought she would see it and, in truth, had avoided thinking about it. Now, standing at the gateway to the valley, she understood that anything she could have imagined would not have been grand enough for what confronted her. It quite simply took her breath away.
The colors of the earth were rich, the colors of the sky, bright. Hues of green defined as emerald, jade, and pine shifted and blended when the wind chased a shadow across the hillside. Blue and white were the only colors in the sky. There was no hint of gray at the edge of the puffed clouds or on the horizon. In the distance, peaks rose sharply, their white caps glinting in the sunshine. Where the stream widened and water rushed over stones and fallen logs, diamond droplets sprayed in all directions.
The ranch house spread out over the land as if it were part of the land. It didn't rise up with the majesty of the surrounding mountains, but held to the earth with its stone foundation and pine walls. Cattle and horses ignored the boundaries of the corral and were scattered throughout the valley. A rider moving along the western rim saw them and waved. Connor raised his hand in acknowledgement. "That's Luke," he told Maggie.
She barely heard him. "It's nothing like Dancer's place," she said, her voice awed.
Connor smiled, but it was Dancer himself who answered. "Hell, girl, Connor's privy is bigger than my cabin."
It was an exaggeration, but from what Maggie could see, not much of one. "Is all this yours?" she asked Connor.
"It is now," he said, pride and satisfaction mingling in his tone. "My grandfather came out here when Pike was exploring the Louisiana Purchase in '06. He was the youngest man on the expedition. He broke away to marry one of the Indian guides and against everyone's advice, decided to make this his home. Most of what he learned about ranching my grandmother taught him. They captured wild horses in the canyons to begin their stud. They farmed for their daily existence and traded with the Indians for supplies. There was no market for what they were doing. He did it because there was pleasure in it, he said, and he suspected that some day the rest of civilization would find him again, and then he'd be ready."
Connor's hand swept the valley. "He was still out here forty years later when Fremont came through to map the territory. My grandmother was dead by then, but he had three sons and a daughter to help him run the ranch."
Maggie was doing some mental calculations. "Your father was part of Fremont's group, wasn't he?"
Connor nodded. "My uncles took off when the Fremont expedition moved on, but Rushton stayed behind. He married my mother the same year and I was born a few years after that."
"Just about the time gold was discovered in California."
"That's right." His smile changed to a grin. "Civilization didn't exactly catch up with Old Sam Hart then, but it sure did move through here. This land has one of the best passes through the Park Range."
"Which is why Rennie was interested in it for Northeast Rail."
Dancer snorted, drawing attention to himself on the travois. "Y'all got the rest of your life to jaw about family history. As for me, damned if I ain't tired bein' dragged behind a bad-mannered horse what swats me with his tail every twenty feet. Can't even see what you're talkin' about, only see where we been. Ain't the same thing," he grumbled. "Ain't the same thing at all."
"I guess we should be moving along," Connor said, winking at Maggie. He saw that she was trying to hide a smile behind her hand. He thought it was a good sign that they were starting their trek across Holiday land sharing something like laughter.
By the time they reached the ranch house, Luke had left the ridge to join the other hands in greeting them. Connor helped Maggie down from her horse and made the introductions. He noticed all the men studiously avoided looking at his wife's swollen abdomen as if they thought he still hadn't accepted the idea of fatherhood.
Maggie leaned on Connor for support as he led her up the porch steps and into the house. In spite of the frequent stops, her legs weren't too steady on solid ground. Just inside the door, Connor actually picked her up. "But I want to look around," she protested. Behind her she could hear Dancer grumbling more loudly as Ben and Buck tried to help him off the travois.
"You can look around," Connor said, "but you'll do it like this."
"If you're going to order me around, we're not going to get along."
"I'll risk it," he said dryly.
Maggie noticed he was smirking. The half-grin transformed his face, making him seem more mischievous than dangerous, and on top of that, more handsome than he had any right to be. She simply stared at him.
"Something wrong?" he asked.
She blinked. "No," she said rather breathily. "Lead on."
His grin deepened. "All right. Through here is the parlor." He stepped through a wide archway leading from the hall. Fringed area rugs were scattered on the hardwood floor. The furniture was pine, plain and serviceable, but crafted by skilled hands. Overstuffed cushions, covered in fabrics woven in the same colors as the valley, were placed on the furniture frames to make comfortable seats. The fireplace had a thick wooden mantel set into the stone and there were photographs in handmade frames crowding the surface.
Connor stepped out of the room and crossed the hallway. "This is my study," he said. He turned slowly so she could see the built-in shelves lined with leather bound books. "In my grandfather's day this was a bedroom and the parlor was a kitchen. Even when my mother was a little girl there weren't enough books west of the Mississippi to fill shelves like these. Most of them began arriving after the gold rush. Travelers would leave one or two as payment for a night's lodging on our land. Later, after my father took off for New York, he'd send a crate of books for Christmas or my birthday. When Old Sam was alive we kept them in the attic because he didn't like much of anything Rushton did. I converted this bedroom into a study after my grandfather died."
He drew back out of the room and continued down the hall, showing her the bedroom that Dancer would use, the dining room, kitchen, and at the rear of the house, the large bedroom where Connor slept. "This used to be several small bedrooms but I didn't need them all so Ben helped me take out the walls."
Maggie wished he had left them up. "I didn't expect your house would be so large."
"This ranch house has been changing since my grandfather settled here and laid the first stones. Every few years something gets added or altered." Connor carried Maggie over to the large bed and set her on the colorful quilt. "Old
Sam used to say his wanderlust vanished the moment he saw this valley. He planted himself here and never thought about living anywhere else." He sat on the edge of the bed and took Maggie's straw hat from her hands, placing it on a chair. "Is there anything I can get you?"
She shook her head. "I'm fine."
"Then I'm going to help unload our bags while you nap."
"I'm not tired," she said.
"Liar. You were practically asleep in the saddle." He reached for the light cotton blanket folded at the foot of the bed. "Lie down and I'll put this over you."
She did as he suggested, thinking she was entirely too compliant. She supposed it was because she was tired. "We still have a lot to talk about, Connor."
"But we don't have to do it right now." After he covered her, he leaned over and kissed her on the forehead.
"And you're entirely too familiar."
This time he placed his palm over her abdomen and patted lightly. "I'm your husband."
"That's one of the things we have to talk about."
It seemed to Connor that it was as good a time to leave as any. "I'll wake you for dinner," he said and got out of the room before Maggie could object.
As it happened Maggie was up in time to prepare dinner. No one suggested that she do it; in fact, the kitchen was empty when she started, but no one asked her to stop. Connor, when he first came upon her, looked as if he might tell her to go back to resting, then he lifted the lid to the stew pot, sniffed, and seemed to think better of it. Maggie noticed that soon after Connor left the kitchen there was a veritable parade of ranch hands through the back door.
They came on different pretexts. Ben showed her a burn on his finger from a shower of sparks in the forge. Patrick limped in to sit at the kitchen table while he shook a few stones loose from his boot. Buck said he was looking for the hat he'd left behind when he helped bring in Dancer's belongings. Luke asked for a drink of water from the pump.
Maggie saw to each of their needs, enjoying the brief chance for conversation. She also noticed, however, that to a man they sidled up to the stove and lingered next to the stew pot, taking in the aroma of carrots, onions, potatoes, and meat simmering in its own juices. Luke stayed long enough to help her cut out the biscuits and get the oven ready.
When the kitchen got too warm for comfort, Maggie joined Dancer on the front porch. Connor had taken a cot outside and let the prospector stretch out on it. It was, in Dancer's words, better than bein' cooped up like some damn chicken.
"Is there anything I can get you?" she asked before she sat down. Dancer merely pointed to the porch step and gave her a firm look. She sat. Her eyes were drawn to the corral where Connor was leaning against the top rail talking to Buck and Patrick. A stallion the color of smoke was pacing off the length of the corral, shooting nervous glances in the direction of the men. "What are they doing?" she asked.
"Decidin' whose turn it is to take a fall," said Dancer, chuckling. "Buck's gone down twice and Patrick just kissed the dirt for the third time. Can't say when I've had a better time doin' nothin' but watchin' a couple of fools try to outsmart an ornery animal."
"If they're smart they'll get Connor to take a turn," she said dryly.
Dancer's gleeful, high-pitched laughter gave the horse a start, and the three men glanced in the direction of the porch. "You'd like that, wouldn't you," he asked, slapping his good leg.
Smiling, Maggie waved at the men and said through her teeth, "I'd very much like to see Connor Holiday take a good swift kick in the—"
"Looks like you'll get the chance," Dancer said gleefully. "There he goes now."
Maggie's smile vanished. She sat up straighter, perching on the edge of the step as Connor approached the stallion. She could see that he was talking to the horse but couldn't hear what he was saying. Not that it mattered, she thought, because she knew Connor's tone was more important than his actual words. It was easy to imagine the gentle, calming cadence of his voice. She knew first hand how soothing it could be. It was a little galling to realize he probably practiced that whiskey-soft cadence breaking mares. It was something to remember the next time she heard those same tones being whispered near her ear.
"I hope that horse pitches him over the fence," she told Dancer.
He chuckled at her lie—even in profile he could see the anxiety in Maggie's face.
Maggie watched as Buck helped steady the skittish animal while Connor mounted. The ranch hand managed to clear a safe distance before the stallion tried to unseat its rider. Connor used only one hand to hold on, balancing himself with the other. His body met the rise and fall of the horse's frantic attempts to throw him. Buck and Patrick yelled encouragement. Dancer whooped his enjoyment. Maggie simply held her breath.
The stallion snorted and bucked, kicking up dust and clumps of dirt. Connor's hat fell on the ground and was trampled. Buck and Patrick vaulted the corral as the horse charged the fence then ran the perimeter of the rails. Connor swayed in the saddle, bounced and jolted by the stallion's arching, but managed to stay in his seat.
"Damn me if his teeth ain't rattled," Dancer said.
Maggie came to her feet as Connor was dipped dangerously to one side. He righted himself momentarily, took the next attempt to throw him nearly standing in the stirrups, then was pitched head over heels as the stallion abruptly ground to a halt. Maggie was already running in the direction of the corral as Connor made his ignominious somersault from the saddle. Patrick opened the gate for her.
Maggie dropped to her knees beside Connor as he was trying to pick himself up. "Don't you dare move," she said, placing her hand at the center of his back.
Groaning, Connor obligingly collapsed again. He felt her hands moving along his shoulders and arms, at the back of his neck, then along his legs. He knew nothing was broken but he let Maggie discover that for herself. Connor tucked one gloved hand under his cheek and stole a glance in Maggie's direction. She was worrying her lower lip, her face pale. Connor realized she wasn't merely concerned, she was scared.
"I'm probably going to live," he told her, trying to inject a note of humor.
Maggie sat back on her haunches and glared at him. "No, you're not," she said stiffly. "I'm going to kill you." Behind her, one of the hands snickered. She ignored him, getting to her feet. She brushed herself off, turned her back on Connor, and marched off in the direction of the house.
Watching her go, Connor sat up slowly. He took the trampled hat that Buck handed him and beat it against his thigh, shaking off the dust and making a halfhearted attempt at reshaping it.
"Whooo-eee," Buck said under his breath. "Look at her go. She sure is mad at you."
Connor didn't look at all bothered. He was actually grinning. "I know."
"You had your face in the sod that time," Patrick said.
The stallion had ambled to the far corner of the corral. Connor's glance was a mixture of gratefulness and respect. He got up, shook himself out, and dared a quick look toward the house. The screen door was swinging closed behind Maggie. "This time I think it was worth it," he said. In a sweeping motion he placed his hat back on his head and jerked his thumb toward the stallion. "Your turn."
Patrick rubbed his chin with the back of his hand, frowning. "Bet she doesn't come runnin' to check my bones," he grumbled.
Buck laughed, but Connor said seriously, "You better hope she doesn't."
Patrick shook his head and walked off in the direction of the stallion, muttering, "Hard to tell which one of them has it worst."
* * *
Maggie was subdued at dinner. The conversation went on around her and she only listened with half an ear as Buck and Patrick regaled everyone with a recounting of Connor's fall and Patrick's subsequent success with the stallion. She was complimented several times on her stew and biscuits and she accepted the accolades rather absent-mindedly, her thoughts clearly elsewhere.
When the men pushed their chairs away from the table and stretched, Maggie began to clear.
"Lu
ke and Buck will do it," Connor said, stopping her by placing a hand lightly on her wrist.
"I don't mind," she said.
He shook his head. "It's their turn."
Luke was already on his feet, pulling Buck up with him. "Connor's right. It's our turn."
Maggie looked at the two men skeptically. Buck didn't seem to know anything about it being his turn. His sudden enthusiasm appeared to have something to do with Luke's elbow in his ribs. Maggie surprised herself by not calling attention to that fact. "Excuse me, then," she said quietly. Connor's hand slipped from her wrist and Maggie left the kitchen.
She settled in Connor's study. The clatter and laughter from the kitchen was subdued as she closed the door, ceasing to exist once she was alone with her thoughts.
It occurred to her that she could love him. The thought both thrilled and frightened her and turned her stomach inside out. She felt weak and trembly and mocked herself for both. She told herself to be sensible, that she had no real understanding of her own feelings and could not hope to know Connor's. There was no indication that he returned any finer feeling at all and, Maggie realized with sudden insight, it probably didn't matter. Whatever she felt, Maggie knew it wasn't conditional, dependent upon what he thought about her or what feelings he might have for her.
Out of the corner of her eye Maggie saw a movement on the porch. She looked up from the unopened book in her lap and watched Connor cut across the front yard and head toward the stable. She set aside her book and went to the window. After a few minutes she saw him leave on his horse and suddenly, unexpectedly, she felt a wave of incredible loneliness.
Maggie laid her hand on her abdomen, smoothing her smock over the curve of her belly. She stroked absently, watching Connor ride across the valley until he disappeared into the forest of pines, turning away long after she lost sight of him.
Night had fallen by the time Connor returned. The hands had gone to the bunkhouse and Dancer had retired to his room. Maggie was in the kitchen heating water at the stove. A copper-lined hipbath had been pulled close to the pump, but in spite of its nearness to the source, and in spite of Maggie's caution, puddles of water dotted the floor.