Chapter 2
“Men are low down, no good snakes.” Stormy raged at the solitary puffball cloud that shadowed her and her pinto.
Her bruised knuckles ached. She looped Odin’s reins around the saddle horn and massaged the discoloring skin.
It was bad enough dealing with Jonathan Vance, but now he’d found a fast-thinking man to help him. She’d encountered him twice this morning. Bested him both times, too.
Hopefully he’d heed her warning and hightail it back to the bank in Yankton. If he showed up again, she’d hogtie him and turn him into a steer.
That would make Vance think twice before he claimed they were engaged.
She’d kissed him at last year’s Founders Day dance because she’d wanted to know what a man’s kiss felt like. It wasn’t because she’d overheard a town busybody say she was too eccentric to snag a husband. She didn’t want one.
Oh, every now and then she minded being single. If she had the arm of a fine-looking beau, people might stop gossiping that her mother had been a whore. Stop whispering that Zed might not be her father.
Odin stumbled.
As she worked to recover her balance, Stormy heard hoof beats coming up from behind. She turned in the saddle and scanned the road until she saw the rider on a black quarter horse.
She stopped and dismounted. Pulled her shotgun from its saddle holster. She didn’t relish the idea of firing, but a spray of buckshot always made a powerful impression.
The rider slowed his horse to a walk. It was Vance’s man, the one she’d lammed on the nose. No doubt come for revenge. Banks never paid for a job undone.
“Turn around and ride back to town,” she hollered. “I’ll shoot.”
“No, you won’t.”
She hunkered down and aimed at the peak of his slate-colored Stetson. “I’m a real good shot.”
“I’m sure you are, Miss Hawkins, but you don’t have any ammunition.” He reached into his vest pocket and pulled out two shotgun shells.
Startled, she checked her gun. It was empty.
He moved his mare closer. He sat easily in the saddle, like a man used to horse work. “Just so you know,” he said, “right now I’m as suspicious of you as you are of me.”
“What?”
“You got me.” He tapped the side of his nose. “It still smarts.”
Wary, she waited for him to make his move. He wasn’t close enough to smack with the butt of her gun, but she tightened her grip anyway.
He didn’t budge. In fact, he didn’t seem bent on threatening her at all. His broad shoulders swayed slightly as his mare shifted under him. Saddle leather creaked under a trim waist and lean hips. One leg of his dark jeans had a stain the color of boiled beans.
She studied him more closely. Locks of his long, black hair had slipped free of a leather tie-back, and his eyes were the color of Zed’s special occasion brandy. If she were a love-starved farmer’s daughter, she’d bat her eyelashes in a come-and-get-me invite. But, she wasn’t. She was a smart, capable rancher who could take care of herself. And, she wanted answers. “Why were you at the Land & Loan?”
“I could ask you the same question. Why did you go inside?”
“None of your business. Answer my question.”
He avoided her eyes. “I heard shouts and a crash. I didn’t know the two of you were engaged.”
“Did he tell you that?” She raised her chin and immediately regretted it. Her neck ached where Jonathan Vance had squeezed. “We’re not.”
The rider scratched the stubble charcoaling his strong, square jaw. “I don’t cotton to men hurting women.”
His assertion made her feel unsteady, like she had a touch of fever, and he had a cure.
“I also don’t think women should hit men.”
His mare nodded her head like a corroborating witness.
“I think you owe me an apology,” he persisted.
“An apology?” For a handsome man, he sure was dumb. “You grabbed me from behind.”
“I was disarming you. For public safety.”
“I don’t owe you anything.”
“Not even a simple, I’m sorry?” His smile hinted that he was teasing, but the glint in his eyes screamed that he was flirting.
A flush of heat rushed to her cheeks. Other than Vance’s double-dealing flattery, the men in town avoided her. Still, she wasn’t ready to trust this stranger. “Why were you on our land?”
“I ran out of daylight and didn’t know I was trespassing.” He leaned down and held out her Winchester’s shells in a calloused palm. “I didn’t see a fence.”
As she plucked the shells up and reloaded, she weighed his explanation.
“From the little I saw last night,” he continued, “your spread is really something. I’m saving to buy a ranch of my own.”
She recalled his name. “Have you worked cattle before, Mr. Masters?”
“Here and there. Belinda has taught me a lot.” He patted his mare affectionately. “Miss Hawkins, would you consider letting us stay on for a month? I’d like to learn how you run your ranch. For when I get my own.”
Stormy’s mind raced. They’d taken a big risk rushing to buy the six hundred and forty acres that abutted the ranch, but Widow Butler’s lowland was just what their steers needed in late summer, when the blazing sun withered high-ground grass. They’d just started to fence it when Zed had his heart attack. If this cowboy was worth his salt and took Zed’s place, they’d get back on schedule.
If they didn’t, they could lose everything. But, could she could trust him? What if he was lazy? Or, a card shark? What if he proved to be a thief?
The cowboy was still talking. “I’m strong, and Belinda is real gentle. We’re used to sleeping under the stars. We’d work for our board.”
Her head whipped in his direction. “How hard do you work?”
“How hard do you work?”
“Sunup to sundown. Rain or shine. You think you can keep up?”
“I’d try my best.” He smiled a smile that made her toes want to curl like cat’s paws. “So, what do you say, Miss Hawkins? Do we have a deal?”
She still wasn’t sure. Zed believed coincidences were as random as raindrops and dangerous as hailstones. Worried about rustlers and the bank note, he hadn’t been sleeping well. Having a stranger around might disquiet him more.
Brownie, on the other hand, always said, ‘Iffen a man gives you a horse, don’t count its ribs.’
If Mr. Masters helped to build their fence, Zed could rest and regain his strength. Their steers would fatten on lush lowland grass, and by the end of October, fetch top dollar from the finicky quartermaster at Fort Randall. They’d pay off the bank note and have clear title to the ranch again. Vance would have no reason to bother her anymore. Everything that was wrong would end right.
Odin touched his nose to the mare’s. Her tail flicked high, but other than that, she didn’t move.
Horses were smart. They “knew” things better than people most times. She decided to follow Odin’s lead.
“Here’s my offer, Mr. Masters. We’ll train you in exchange for a bunk with clean sheets and all the food you can eat. You’ll work hard and sleep like a baby. No gambling. Keep your opinions to yourself.” She mounted her gelding and picked up the reins. “Take it or leave me alone.”
~ ~ ~
Blade’s stomach growled as he and Stormy rode past a Hawkins Ranch sign. She’d promised hot, home-cooked food, but even crusted, two-day-old leftovers sounded good right now. He’d walked out on a steak, and yesterday he’d eaten only leathery jerky.
Still, he was making good progress. He’d been invited onto the Hawkins’ ranch, and Stormy hadn’t hit him or threatened to shoot him in the past quarter hour.
She intrigued him, and not just because he was partial to pretty redheads. She handled her horse well. Talked about her land and the work needing to be done with an intensity he hoped to share. It was clear she didn’t trust him, but after witnessing how she was viewed in town, he understood her wariness.
After meeting Stormy, he looked forward to meeting Mr. Hawkins. He enjoyed talking to ranchers, so his interest was genuine and usually well received. He’d take his time. Circle around the subject of retirement until the right moment.
And, he’d keep his hands in plain sight. Reassure Mr. Hawkins that Blade Masters had no intentions of compromising his daughter. He couldn’t even if he wanted to. His johnson didn’t work like that anymore.
“Stop it right there!” Stormy abruptly reined up her pinto and fixed him with a slit-eyed glare. “If you mention one word about what I did at the Land & Loan this morning, I’ll say you chased me all the way home. Brownie will skin you alive while Running Bear bashes your skull with his heaviest frying pan. By the time Zed gets the facts straight, you’ll be dead.”
Blade willed his jaw not to drop. Candy had bullied him with tantrums and tears. Stormy Hawkins believed in action, and from the sound of it, she had willing helpers.
The corners of her mouth twitched. “We’ll bury you deep and never tell.”
He spotted a mischievous sparkle in her eyes. She was teasing him like the rough and tumble Kansas ranch hands who’d taught him to ride and rope five years ago. He’d learned to play their game, and he could learn to play hers. “What about Belinda?”
“Running Bear will forge your mark on a bill of sale, and everyone will think she’s ours fair and square. We’ll take good care of her.”
“I could write my last will and testament right now. Might take me a while.”
“Another bad idea. Brownie gets madder than a hornet in a jar when I’m late for meals. He’ll come looking, and you know what will happen then.”
“What should I do?”
“Keep your ears open and your mouth shut.”
He crossed his arms. “Keeping quiet is hard work. Make it worth my while.”
Her pretty lips pursed and held his attention. Finally, she said, “First in the tub on bath night.”
~ ~ ~
Blade followed Stormy around another hill and leaned forward, scarcely able to believe his eyes. The homestead he’d built and rebuilt a thousand times in his mind stood before him in living color.
The cozy, two-story cabin had sash windows and a shiny tin roof. Gray-white smoke spiraled from its square brick chimney, and rocking chairs lined the wide front porch. Two dozen brown hens and a rooster with a tall red comb scratched in the front yard.
A shiny, whirling windmill pumped water into a stock trough. The red barn and attached corral looked sturdy and tight. Work wagons, two-seater outhouse, garden with weeded rows of vegetable seedlings, firewood split and stacked. Everything was just how he’d always wanted his place to look.
The only features he’d never envisioned were the weathered tipi towering over a line of flowering berry bushes, and the big black hound with hair stiff on its back. Its eyes glowed wolf-yellow before it raised its nose and howled like a riverboat foghorn.
“That’s Napoleon,” Stormy said. “If Brownie likes you, he’ll like you.”
Gripping Belinda’s reins, Blade dismounted. He’d gotten them into this pickle, and he’d get them out of it. His mare danced uneasily behind him as he held out his hand for the hound to sniff. “Hey there, big fella. My name is Blade.”
The lanky man with the scraggly, salt-and-pepper beard, who’d chased him off at gunpoint a few hours ago, ran from the house, checkered napkin flapping under his chin. He hollered over his shoulder, “Zed, git your gun!”
“It’s okay, Brownie,” Stormy shouted. “He wants to be a ranch hand.”
Brownie’s scowl turned into a wide grin. “Ranch hand? Why didn’t you say so in the first place? Hurry in, stranger. The gravy’s gettin’ cold.”
Napoleon bounded forward and licked Blade’s hand like an overgrown puppy.
Blade shooed Belinda into the corral. As Stormy swung the gate shut, he fished in his back pocket for his bandanna. Two days earlier, he’d washed the cloth in a creek and dried it on a rock he’d set close to his campfire. It was stiff, but clean.
He pretended to brush a bug off her shoulder. “Put this on. That way, no one will see the marks on your neck.”
The color drained from her cheeks. Turning her back toward the house, she held the blue cloth by opposing corners and spun it into a two-inch wide tube.
“Our secret,” he promised.
~ ~ ~
Stormy could have danced around the dining table wearing nothing but a skirt of peacock feathers. No one asked why she was late or why she’d tied an unfamiliar bandanna around her neck. Blade was the center of attention.
Zed pumped his hand while Running Bear set a place at the table. Brownie heaped a plate with fried potatoes and sliced meat, and told him to ‘say when’ as he poured brown gravy. They bombarded him with questions about where he hailed from and what brought him to these parts.
While she ate, she studied him. He kept his napkin in his lap like Zed, not tucked in his shirt like Brownie. He split his biscuits with a knife instead of pulling them apart with his fingers. He had a raised, white scar on the soft side of his forearm that disappeared under his rolled-up cuff. She’d spotted it when he reached for the butter bowl.
“You grew up in St. Louis,” Zed said. “There’s lots to do in a big city.”
“Not if your dream is to become an explorer like Lewis or Clark,” Blade replied.
“What did your family think of that?”
“Well, sir, let’s just say they were less than enthusiastic. Two days after my seventeenth birthday, I ran away from home and talked my way onto a steamer carrying freight up the Missouri River. The Nimrod hauled everything from lumber and grain to horses and tools. Lots of dry goods and liquor, and of course, mail. I was a roustabout, a rat.”
Blade chewed and swallowed another forkful of meat before continuing. “Captain LaBarge expected his rats to move cargo fast. Ideally, we would tie up to a dock. But, if the dock was busy, he’d make us walk a plank between the deck and the shore. I fell in once, and LaBarge docked my pay. I never let that happen again.”
Zed nodded enthusiastically. “Good man.”
Stormy couldn’t tell if Zed was applauding the captain or their new ranch hand, but she didn’t care. The worry lines in Zed’s forehead had softened, and his color was the best she’d seen in weeks. If he started recounting war stories, and Blade listened, she’d know her decision to invite Blade was a good one.
“After five years,” Blade continued, “I went home. I was too big for a beating, so my father did the next best thing. He gave me a job.”
Her men laughed.
“I hated working indoors, pushing a pencil and breathing stale city air, but I was trying to be a dutiful son. I stuck it out for a year. When I couldn’t take it anymore, I hitched a ride on a mail stage to Kansas and found work on the ranch where I got Belinda.” He went to the kitchen, returned with the coffeepot, and offered refills. “You have a beautiful place here.”
“We have Running Bear to thank for that,” Zed said. “Brownie and I met him at Fort Sisseton in ’64. Our orders were to provide a steady supply of meat for the garrisons who protected the railroad while it was being built, and for the settlers who homesteaded.”
Blade set the coffee pot on the table. “I heard the army is paying less and expecting more.”
Zed tipped his balding pate from side to side, his usual noncommittal headshake. “A contract is better than speculation. You know what you have to do and what you will earn.”
“We should talk about the fence,” Stormy interrupted.
Brownie sipped his coffee. “I want to hear more about working on the river.”
“Are you sure?” Blade asked. He caught her eye and smiled in a way that spoke to her. Somehow, she knew he wanted to hear about the fence, but one more story might be good.
Her heart fluttered at this unexpected intimacy.
Embarrassed, she jumped to her feet, stacked the dirty dishes, and carried them into the kitchen. The wood stove still radiated warmth from Running Bear’s morning baking. A thread of steam seeped from a pot of brown beans, simmering on a back burner.
She set the dishes in the sink and tiptoed back close to the doorway.
“All along the Missouri, riverbanks give way,” Blade said. “Whole trees fall in and sink under the water, where they wait to snag steamers in their branches. My job as a rat was to get LaBarge’s freighter unstuck without drowning or getting hit by the wheel.”
Stormy stepped back into the room and snorted derisively. Trees had roots that anchored them in the ground. They did not regularly fall into rivers.
“You don’t believe me?” Blade leaned back in his chair. “Mark Twain said the most variable things in Creation are the actions of a jury, the condition of the Missouri, and the state of a woman’s mind.”
Hooting with laughter, Running Bear slapped Blade on the back and pointed at her. Brownie’s chortle sounded like the cry of a lost goose.
Stormy bristled. Her mind wasn’t variable. She knew exactly what she had to do: build a fence, fatten the cattle, pay off the loan, and save the ranch. She had half a mind to tell Blade Masters the deal was off.
Zed finished chuckling. “Blade, did Stormy explain what we’re up against?”
“Oh, Zed,” she said, sugar-sweetly. “Mr. Masters is a doer, not a talker. He’ll learn best on the job.”