Where Eagles Fly

by Lisa Norato

  Later that evening, as Shelby sat at the kitchen table with Rose, picking through a pile of dried beans for the roundup, she took the opportunity to inquire about something that had been puzzling her.

  “I’ve been thinking, Rose. I understand that Ruckert’s behavior was all about him trying to hide his stutter, but why did my piano playing upset him? He made a comment later that led me to believe the piano holds a painful memory for him. What caused him to quit playing?”

  Rose reached across the table to give Shelby’s hand a squeeze. “It’s a fairly simple story, but I feel I’ve said plenty already. No, I’m going to leave that one for Ruckert. Oh, he might not feel like talking at the moment. That boy’s always had an awfully hard time accepting weakness in himself. He fights it with everything he’s got. Right now it’s anger and shame he’s fighting, but I’m hoping he’ll soon realize he’s got nothing to gain by silence.” She paused, then added on a wistful note, “And when he does, well. . . .”

  “Well, what? You think he’ll come to me?” Immediately, Shelby regretted her sarcastic tone, but she simply did not share Rose’s confidence.

  Rose’s lips curled gently in a smile packed with patience and wisdom. “From the day you arrived, Shelby McCoy, my son has been burning up with curiosity and fondness for you. There’s nothing he wouldn’t give to be able to open up, but you must understand that’s a mighty hard thing for him.”

  Shelby nodded and let it go at that. She felt exhausted, both mentally and physically. So when she climbed the stairs a short while later and entered her bedroom, she didn’t notice the bouquet of wildflowers on her dresser until she’d already begun to change for the night.

  Spikes of deep blue larkspur, narrow blooms of red Indian paintbrush and the sunflower-like arnica burst with color from an empty tin of canned tomatoes.

  They could be from anyone. From Rose, to cheer her up. From Holden, to thank her for joining the roundup. But that tomato tin. It smacked of Ruckert.

  Shelby fell into a deep, exhausted sleep, her spirits lighter and freer than they’d felt in days. But as morning dawned, and there was still no sign of Ruckert, not even when the caravan of wagon, men and horses had lined up to depart on the roundup, her disappointment returned as strong as ever.

  Working strictly with horses, Ruckert had no hand in the operation of the ranch’s cattle business, but that was no reason for him not to join the rest of the family in saying goodbye.

  Shorty waited in the chuck wagon as Shelby gave Jorge one last farewell kiss before turning him over to Rose. “You’ll watch him for me?”

  “Like he was one of my own.”

  “He can be a handful.”

  Rose tsked. “I’ve tamed broncs, birthed calves, shot rattlesnakes and raised five boys. Surely I can look after one little dog for a couple of days. But don’t fret. If I’m not able to keep my eye on him for any reason, Charley here will.”

  “You bet, Miss McCoy,” Charley assured, “it’s the least we can do.”

  Hugh had been watching in reflective silence, chewing on a piece of straw. He caught Shelby’s eye and touched his hat brim to her. “We’ll be looking forward to your return, Miss McCoy, and those doughnuts you promised.”

  Rose reached for Jorge, but before Shelby surrendered her furry bundle into the woman’s arms, something caught her eye. Jorge’s lighted green collar was gone again, this time replaced with a leather braided one. She fingered his i.d. tag, its clasp woven within the thin, soft, leather strips.

  “Something wrong?” Rose asked.

  “This isn’t Jorge’s collar. I mean, it’s not the collar he was wearing when we retired last night. Someone’s obviously given him a gift. I’m pretty sure I know who and why. What I don’t get is how. Jorge hasn’t been out of my sight. Not that I can recall. Unless, the switch was made while I was asleep.”

  She turned to Hugh, not because she suspected him, but something told her if anyone could explain this mystery it would be the strangely perceptive, middle St. Cloud brother.

  Hugh scoffed, surprised at first, then affronted. “I don’t mind saying, I’m disappointed, ma’am. After our conversation the other day, I figured us for friends, but you play me unfair in taking me for the sort of fellow who’d go uninvited into a lady’s bedroom.” He recoiled, incredulous. “Least not ‘cause I’d been up all night making her dog some jewelry.”

  “Who said anything about being up all night?” Shelby eyed him suspiciously. “Oh, I know it wasn’t you, Hugh. This handiwork has Ruckert written all over it. He’s had an issue with Jorge’s collar from day one. But you seem to have a finger in every pie around here, and I’m willing to bet you know what’s going on with the sudden gift-giving. A bouquet of wildflowers, this collar. All very thoughtful, but why, when Ruckert’s been avoiding me? Is he working some kind of reverse psychology?”

  “Reverse psychology?” Hugh repeated, confused.

  “If Ruckert cares for me, then why isn’t he here saying goodbye, bon voyage, good luck?” she challenged. “It doesn’t make sense.”

  “Life seldom does, ma’am.”

  Shelby spotted a twinkle behind those crinkly brown eyes and glared back distrustfully.

  “It’s like this, Miss McCoy. Ruckert’s got it hard enough just plain talking, but when it comes to jawing with a woman he’s attracted to, his tongue can get downright handicapped until he comes to a place where he feels comfortable around her. Now I can’t ever recall an occasion where he’s come to that place, but that’s not to mean it won’t ever happen. So, if he doesn’t speak to you for a time, or maybe never, well, you have to understand it’s not because he doesn’t want to.”

  If that was meant to make her feel better, it hadn’t succeeded. Not even close, and Shelby felt sorry she’d brought up the subject.

  Holden rode up on his horse Blackie and tipped back his high-brimmed Stetson to look down his perfect nose at her. “All’s ready to strike the trail, Miss McCoy. We’re just a-waiting on you. So, if you’ve finished saying your goodbyes, I’d like to get a hump on.”

  “Oh. Okay, I’m ready,” she muttered, jarred from her thoughts. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

  Rose flung her arms around Shelby. “Now remember, if you need anything out there, or if the work gets to be too much, don’t be shy about calling on one of my boys.” One final squeeze and Rose released her, then took possession of Jorge and backed away from the wagon, along with Charley and Hugh.

  In parting, Shelby braved a smile that hid her misgivings. She turned her back on the group, then took the hand Shorty offered and climbed into the high seat of the chuck wagon beside him.

  Holden’s horse pranced anxiously as he looked to his mother. “Don’t you worry. We’ll take good care of Miss McCoy. Why, she’ll be safer on the trail with us than sitting in church with you. She’ll have plenty of willing hands at her disposal and all the boys watching out for her. More even than she realizes.”

  With those last words, he turned to address Shelby, and while she searched for a hidden meaning in them, Holden graced her with one of his shy, dimpled grins and winked, piquing her curiosity all the more.

  He urged Blackie to the front of the procession and raised a gloved hand, signaling the cavalcade to move out.

  Shorty kicked the brake free. He snapped the lines and shouted to the team. They strained forward, the wagon wheels starting to roll. They were off, the punchers raising their voices in excitement, as they rode their mounts on either side of the chuck wagon, while Wylie brought up the rear herding the remuda, a band of extra, unsaddled horses. Through the cloud of dust kicked up from their hooves, Shelby glanced back one last time and waved.

  * * *

  It was a bright morning, and as the sun rose higher and higher in the eastern sky, temperatures neared what felt like sweltering. By midday, clouds appeared behind the mountain ranges to the west.

  Shelby removed the western hat she’d borrowed from Rose and wiped her brow. One thing hadn’t c
hanged with time. Wyoming summers.

  And nowhere was the weather move evident than on the open range. It wasn’t long before she started peeling off the layers. First, her leather aviator jacket, then the batik print jacket, until she was down to her white shirt and boot-cut jeans.

  By tonight, she’d be piling them back on again as protection against the chill.

  The caravan disbanded. Every couple of miles or so, another hand would peel away from the group to search his assigned area for Flying Eagle cows and their unbranded calves. Meanwhile, the chuck wagon and the remuda continued to follow an old trail across the prairie. Nothing but grass and sky for hours on end, until they came upon a running stream. From the stream, their trail led north several miles farther to the ramshackle homestead of Grandpa St. Cloud, which they reached at around five o’clock.

  Holden had pre-selected the campsite, a stretch of level grassland by the homestead, or what remained of it. Decay had taken the roof and crumpled a couple of its walls. From out of the remains and underbrush arose a large stone hearth. Only the corral fencing had been maintained.

  He swung the wagon into the wind, placing the chuck box at the rear to give Shelby a windbreak before the cook fire. Then he unhitched the team, while Wylie drove the horses off to graze. When the boy returned, both brothers immediately got started on digging a fire trench and setting up camp. Shelby rolled up her shirt sleeves, shoved thoughts of Ruckert to the back of her mind and set her hands to work.

  There was much to do.

  The chuck box opened on a hinged lid that folded down to form a worktable. She started with the beans she and Rose had prepped the night before. Some dry salt pork, seasonings, a can of tomatoes and before long, a large pot of beans hung over a slow fire to simmer for the next five hours or so, the longer the better.

  Next, Shelby mixed a sourdough batter. Once she’d kneaded the dough, shaped the biscuits and set them inside a Dutch oven to rise, Shorty escorted her on horseback to a little dell they’d passed along the way. Together they picked raspberries for a cobbler, which Shelby immediately started putting together upon her return to camp. Shortly before mealtime, Shorty carved the steaks. With a hammer, he pounded them thin and tender before passing them along to Shelby, who breaded and finally dipped them into the fryer.

  And so it happened that somewhere between driving the chuck wagon across miles of Flying Eagle ranch, setting up camp on the grounds of its original homestead, then striving to live up to Cookie’s legacy, or, at the very least, prepare an edible meal for a dozen of the hungriest men this side of the Snowy Range, in the most primitive culinary fashion, synchronizing every dish to be ready and hot at the same time, Shelby had unconsciously stopped resisting the nineteenth century and threw herself, body and soul, into her work.

  She’d never labored this hard in all her life, but in the process, her restless mind slowed down; her spirit filled with peace. Everything was under control. This was exactly where she needed to be at this very moment.

  And probably not far off from what she’d be doing if she were a dude on holiday at her sister Cat’s guest ranch.

  She didn’t generally get much opportunity to enjoy the outdoors, other than taking Jorge for a walk. Her everyday activities were filled with music and teenagers and teacher conferences. With composing and shopping and lunches with girlfriends. When was the last time she’d stopped to appreciate the beauty of her home state? Maybe the last time she’d got together with her sister. Caitlin respected the land and her heritage. Caitlin didn’t go through life consumed only with her own stuff. She noticed things, like nature.

  Shelby felt inspired, wondering if maybe there wasn’t a song in there somewhere, then let the thought brew in the back of her mind as she turned her attention to the meal.

  She poured herself a cup of coffee, satisfied with a job well done, thanks to Shorty’s help. The aroma of fresh coffee wafted through the camp. The biscuits were flaky; the steaks tender. Beans simmered, bubbling plop-plop with each little jet of steam that escaped the black iron pot. And finally, warming beneath the lid of a large Dutch oven, her raspberry cobbler for dessert.

  With daylight fading, thunderheads had begun to gather in the skies. A southwest wind blew across camp. Shelby could feel an increased heaviness to the air.

  None of that dampened the enthusiasm of the men, however. After Shorty hollered, “Come an’ get it!” they began to drift in, greeting her on their way to the wagon where clean plates, cups and utensils had been laid out on the mess box lid. Shelby watched the grins on their faces as they moved on to the campfire and, in an orderly fashion, lifted the lid off each Dutch oven to fill their plates, cafeteria style. They helped themselves to coffee.

  Wylie rode in on a compact yellow buckskin with black points. He dismounted in a hurry, then tied the horse to the chuck wagon wheel. He brushed past her without so much as an acknowledgment, mud splattered over his face, deep in thought as he cursed the horses in the remuda.

  “Good evening to you, too, Wylie,” she called pointedly to his back.

  He halted in his tracks. Then turning, shamefaced, he removed his hat, his baby-fine brown hair flat and damp where the brim had been resting. He wiped his muddy cheek with the back of his hand and backtracked the few steps to where she stood. “My pardon, ma’am. I don’t know how I missed you standing there, Miss McCoy, but I’m plumb sorry for the language.”

  The most vulgar word he’d spoken had been “dadburned.”

  Shelby smiled her understanding. “It’s okay. I know you’re hungry. And tired. It’s been a long day. I just hope I’m not the one apologizing to you once you’ve tasted my cooking.”

  “Oh, no, ma’am. I can’t hardly wait to eat. The chuck smells real good,” he assured her before returning his hat to the top of his shaggy brown head. He excused himself with a nod and stepped in line behind the older cowboys. When it came his turn, he helped himself to portions twice as generous as those taken by men twice his size. Then, instead of joining them, he strode off, balancing both his full plate and a brimming coffee cup, leaving the horse behind as he disappeared into an aspen grove.

  To eat alone? Shelby puzzled. But why?

  Holden was last to arrive. He took one look at the small, saddled buckskin and his usually bright and cheerful expression darkened like the skies above. “Who the Sam Hill rode Buck into camp and then left him upwind of the wagon?”

  The punchers seated around the campfire peered up at him from beneath their hat brims and shrugged mutely, their mouths full of chuck.

  “I figure riding trail with me, year after year, none of you motley bunch is fool enough to forget I don’t stand for dust in my coffee, nor the smell of horse while I’m drinking it.”

  Not just a pretty face, the easy-going charmer of the St. Cloud brood apparently was also a stern taskmaster, who possessed a healthy set of lungs. But more to the point, Holden was a serious coffee drinker. And Shelby had come to regard a coffee mug as an extension of Holden’s anatomy. Which was why she’d asked Shorty to brew it.

  “Wylie,” Holden pondered aloud in a mutter, his gaze darting around camp in a fruitless search, until they came to rest on Shelby.

  Not wanting to be the one to tattle, she averted her eyes, then quickly made herself busy. She selected a clean tin mug from the mess box and carried it to the fire to fill with fresh coffee. As she poured, she heard Holden’s footsteps approaching from behind. When he’d reached her side, she turned with the cup, saying, “For you.”

  He grinned, one corner of his full mouth inching higher and higher, until a fat dimple dented his cheek. As he accepted the cup, he breathed deep of the coffee aroma and offered thanks.

  “There’s nothing like the smell of coffee on the evening air after a long day. Though I wish we had a finer night for you, Miss McCoy. I’m not happy with the looks of this one.” He scanned the darkening skies before something much closer to earth distracted him. “Say, is that cobbler I smell? Shucks, ma’am, you h
ave certainly outdone yourself.”

  Shelby gestured to the Dutch ovens. “Help yourself.”

  “I will . . . in a minute.” Holden brought the cup to his lips and sipped thoughtfully, all without taking his eyes off her. Lowering the cup, he said, “I know you was here the whole time, Miss McCoy. You’ve got to see everything that goes on around camp. So, tell me, where has my little brother got himself off to? I know he’s not with the horses.”

  Shelby had come to learn a few things living in the nineteenth century this past week, one of which was the unwritten law never to give away a fellow puncher. Now, she might not be a cowhand herself, but these men had honored every one of her cookhouse laws, and she wasn’t about to violate one of theirs.

  In the alternative, she did the only thing she could think to do. She spoke up in Wylie’s defense. “Did it ever occur to you, Holden, you might be working your brother too hard? Wylie’s just a boy. A growing boy, who can’t seem to refuel himself fast enough for all the energy he’s expending. I think he may be exhausted, and that’s why he forgot his horse. Shortly before supper, he came in for a can of tomatoes and didn’t even stick around to eat them. He disappeared with the can, and now . . . well, it’s like he’s eating for two.”

  Holden followed her gaze into the aspens where she’d last seen Wylie, and just like that, something seemed to register with him. It was as though he’d suddenly remembered something. His whole demeanor changed.

  He removed his hat and ran a hand through his thick, coal-black hair, and when he addressed her again, it was with one of his bright boyish smiles.

  “Miss McCoy, I don’t usually stand for bad table manners on the trail. No man likes horse hair in his beans, but if it makes you feel better, I’m going to let the matter drop and spoon myself up some eats. Clearly, you’ve gone to a heap of work preparing this meal. Everything sure smells good, and with rain on the way, well, I’m going to enjoy it while I can.”

  “I think that’s an excellent idea,” Shelby agreed, albeit a touch suspiciously.