She found the business letters and ranch accounts of that time highly interesting, but what captured her imagination, as well as touched her heart, were the tiny glimpses into the personal lives of the Parkers. The lock of hair tied with a fading ribbon, the pen-and-ink drawing of a bird sketched on the face of a calling card, the notation on a very old single-sided greeting card that implored the recipient not to forget “the days we spent together as children at the old home place.” The sweet longing for past times expressed from one unknown person to another brought a lump to Shannon’s throat and lent her an immediate connection.
Mae picked up the letter Shannon had just placed on the stack, read it and said, “That’s how the ranch survived during and just after the War Between the States. Virgil and Gibson contracted as government stock raisers. The prices were excellent for the time, and for every longhorn they sold, they bought a dozen more—so that by the end of the war when Confederate currency was worthless, their money was on the hoof.”
“Do you think they sensed the Confederacy was a lost cause?” Shannon asked.
“They were just good businessmen. They’d been through a lot trying to hang on to this place. When opportunity came along, they took it. Just like they were among the first to drive their cattle to Abilene, Kansas when the market opened up there. You have to understand, what we now know as the Texas cattle industry was just getting started then. After the war there were lots of cattle running loose on the range, but no place to sell ’em. So they took ’em up the Chisholm Trail to where the buyers were.”
“Did Virgil and Gibson go themselves?” Shannon asked.
“Sure did. There’s an interesting story you might like to hear about that. Seems payment in Kansas was made in gold and silver coins, and family legend has it that on one of their return trips, the brothers were attacked by Indians shortly after they crossed over onto Parker land. Well, the brothers separated, each taking a pack mule carrying some of those coins. One brother made it through just fine. The other—we don’t know which one—didn’t fare so well. His pack mule was killed, and the sack of gold weighed too much for him to carry out of danger. So he found the best spot he could and buried it, disguising it so that the Indians or anyone else would never know it was there. When he got home, everyone celebrated his safe return. Only later, when they went back to dig up the gold, the brother couldn’t find where he’d hidden it. He’d done such a good job disguising it, even be couldn’t tell where it was!”
“Did they continue to look?” Shannon asked, intrigued.
Mae’s strong features settled into a grin. “Them and every generation of Parkers since. All the kids love the story and spend hours on end digging up likely spots. I did, Jeff and Theodore did, then Gib, Thomas, Ward, Martha—” she took a breath “—Rafe and LeRoy. Now the younger kids...”
Shannon smiled speculatively. “Is the story true? Or is it just something the adults made up to keep the kids busy?”
“My daddy swore it was true,” Mae said, then she laughed. “Of course, he usually brought it up when I was making a pest of myself underfoot.”
“That could’ve had something to do with it,” Shannon agreed solemnly.
“Very likely.” Mae shook her head, deep in pleasant memories.
Then her dark gaze surveyed the work they’d accomplished so far. Most of the first box had been sorted into individual batches and placed on the coffee table, after the three remaining boxes had been transferred to the floor and the flowers moved across the room for safety.
Mae sighed as she sat back in one of the cream-colored chairs. “That’s enough for today, I think. We don’t want to wear ourselves out first thing.” Shannon started to protest. She wasn’t the least bit tired. Her mind had been stimulated by all she’d seen and by the wonderful reminiscences she’d taken notes of. But as she looked keenly at the other woman, she realized Mae needed to quit.
While held in the thrall of her indomitable spirit, Shannon found it was easy to forget Mae was eighty-one. She seemed ageless, unstoppable. Only now could Shannon see the slight droop at the corners of her mouth and the hunch to her shoulders.
“Yes,” she agreed quietly, “you’re right. This is enough for one day.”
“Of course I’m right,” Mae proclaimed, forcing her shoulders back. “And you have a ride to attend to.” Shannon looked at her curiously. “Do you ride anymore?” she asked.
“Infrequently,” Mae replied, and her tone didn’t invite further questions.
~*~
Shannon changed into a pair of black jeans, a T-shirt and her lightweight jacket, then made her way to the corral. She hadn’t thought to bring boots with her, but she’d exchanged her flimsy sandals of the day before for a pair of high-top athletic shoes in black leather.
Two horses were saddled and waiting. One shook its head and snorted at her approach. The other might have been asleep.
Rafe came out of one of the pens. His demeanor reflected neither hostility nor hospitality. “They’re ready to go,” he said crisply.
Shannon checked her watch—five o’clock exactly. “So am I,” she said and glanced around. “Is Gib—”
“I told you before, I’m taking you.”
Shannon shook her head. “You don’t have to. I’m perfectly capable—”
“Shut up and mount,” he growled. “That is, if you can mount.”
Shannon’s lips tightened. “Which one is yours?” she asked.
Of course, he motioned to the horse that acted alive. “I’d like to have him please,” she said. “That is, if you don’t mind.”
After receiving a short nod, she walked up to the side of the horse and with practiced ease swung into the saddle. The horse skittered this way and that, necessitating some quick handling on her part to control him, but control him she did, and in fast order. She looked down at Rafe and waited for his comment.
He made none, just went about shortening the length of the stirrups for her, then lengthening the stirrups on the other saddle to fit his longer legs. Finally, he gathered the reins and swung into the saddle.
“Where to?” she asked.
“Off to the right,” he said, and led the way out of the enclosure.
No words were exchanged as they rode through the holding pasture and out the other side. Rafe’s hat was pulled low over his forehead, enough so she couldn’t see his eyes. But the set of his mouth was grim.
Shannon tried to ignore him. The large Western-style saddle felt strange to her, but the rocking motion of the horse’s gait was the same. She experienced a spurt of remembered pleasure. It had been years since she’d been on a horse. James had been a worse suburb-brat than she was. Raised in an exclusive neighborhood outside Dallas, his closest exposure to horses had been as a spectator at a parade. Even then, he’d once confessed to her, he’d been a little leery of their power and size. It was funny, but she’d forgotten that admission until now.
She glanced at Rafe from the corner of her eye as they rode several feet apart. The two men couldn’t have been more different in appearance or personality: James, blond with an open face; Rafe, dark with a dangerous edge.
Shannon snapped her gaze forward, her heart pounding in her ears. It was a mistake to come on this ride. Surely she could have come up with some reason to get out of it.
~*~
Rafe watched her surreptitiously, feeling grudging admiration for the way she handled the horse. She rode far better than he’d expected, had ridden for years from the look of it. She sat lightly in the saddle, her back straight but relaxed, her grip on the reins sure yet considerate of the horse’s mouth.
He glanced down at his own mount and smiled ruefully. Junior, here, needed a good nudge from his boot heels every once in a while to remind him that he was supposed to keep going. He was an older horse, past his prime, but so gentle he was completely safe for the children to ride. You couldn’t rile him if you tried. Shannon had certainly picked up on that quickly enough.
As the
ride continued, only the creak of leather and the clop-clop of horses’ hooves broke the silence.
Finally, Rafe spoke. “When you get tired, say so, and we’ll turn back.”
“I’m not tired.”
“Just so you know.”
“Yes.”
The silence resumed, and she seemed perfectly content to let it. Rafe, on the other hand, was growing impatient. He hadn’t wanted to do this, but Aunt Mae had made such big deal of it. Then again, since when had his aunt’s making a big deal about something caused him to comply so readily? He could’ve let Gib take her. It was true his uncle hadn’t been on a horse for several years, but he knew what to do and what not to do, where to go and where not to go. And from the look of her, Shannon could ride rings around his uncle.
Rafe sighed and she heard it. It seemed to be the signal she’d been waiting for. Her head swiveled and she impaled him with her expressive blue eyes.
“All right,” she said stiffly, pulling the horse to a standstill, “we can go back now.”
“Why do you say that?” he asked, frowning.
“Because this is absolutely the last thing in the world you want to be doing right now, and since that’s the case, I won’t bother you any longer. Let’s go back.”
The sun was lowering in the western sky, its rays still bearing down on the arid land, yet beginning to lose some strength. In less than an hour the sun would set, and a crisp chill would follow.
Rafe let his gaze sweep over the vista that was so much a part of him. “I can’t think where you came up with that idea,” he drawled, “when this is the most beautiful place on earth.”
“You’ve been everywhere?” she snipped.
He smiled. “Don’t need to. I just know it.”
The sting of her anger dissipated. “Yes, well...it is pretty,” she conceded.
As far as the eye could see in any direction they were the only humans. The compound was out of sight; not even the trees were visible. A few distant cattle were scattered among the yucca and the low-growing creosote bushes. No clouds marred the wide blue sky. The sense of vastness and timelessness was awesome.
“‘Pretty’ doesn’t quite say it,” he murmured, resting his forearm on the saddle horn. He waited for what she would do next.
It took some time before she surprised him by saying, “We were going through some material today—papers that concerned the very first Parkers. Mae told me that at one time they drove their cattle—longhorns—to Kansas. Do you have any longhorns left? Or are all your cattle those red-and-white ones?”
“Herefords,” Rafe said.
“Yes, Herefords,” Shannon echoed.
“We kept a few longhorns around when I was growing up,” he said in answer to her original question. “Don’t have any now.”
“What happened to them? I mean, why the changeover from one type to another?”
“Why are you asking me, instead of Mae?”
“Because you happened to be here when I thought of it. But if you’d rather not answer, it’s okay by me.” She turned her horse, preparing to retrace their path back to the compound.
“I didn’t say I didn’t want to answer,” Rafe said, catching hold of her reins. “I was curious, that’s all.”
“Please let go.”
It was all Rafe could do not to transfer his hold to her. To sweep her out of the saddle and drag her onto his lap. To let lips crush lips as his fingers pushed into the yellow silk of her hair and his body felt hers melt against him. But since that was exactly what his great-aunt wanted, he took refuge in answering Shannon’s question. Releasing the reins, he shifted in the saddle.
“The cattle drives ended in the mid 1880s, about the same time as railroads came into the state. Then more and more settlers came and people started fencing their land. Cattlemen couldn’t move their cattle from one place to another without having to cut across someone’s fence. So, when they found out they could get water wherever they needed it by drilling wells and putting up windmills—even in some of the worst spots, like here—they started setting up their own pastures. And when they did that, they started to selectively breed cattle. The longhorns were fairly disease-resistant and didn’t take a lot of watching—they had those wide horns to protect themselves. But the Hereford brought a better rate of return, a much higher-quality meat. Railroad service got better, and eventually trucks came along to take ’em to market. That’s about where we are today.”
“I saw some trucks the first day I was here,” she said.
“Yeah, you sure did. You still mad about that?”
“You were the one who was angry.”
He tipped back his hat. “I always aim to make a good impression.”
She smiled thinly and muttered, “I’m sure you do”
To his surprise Rafe laughed outright. He liked the way she gave as good as she got. She wasn’t the type of woman to let a man walk all over her. She’d stand up to him and dare him to repeat what he’d just said.
“We have some time left before we have to turn back,” he said. “Do you want to go on a ways?”
She hesitated, then said, “Sure, why not?”
Rafe grinned his approval.
~*~
There was only one word to describe that grin he’d just given her, Shannon thought as they started off again: rakish. It invited much and promised more. But she’d already agreed to what he’d proposed, and truth to tell she was enjoying herself—except for the bits that were unnerving and uncomfortable.
She couldn’t manage to stay ahead of him! He didn’t telegraph what he was thinking or what he was planning to do. Those night-dark eyes of his were impossible to read. And that handsome face and long lean body... She was aware of his smallest move, even a twitch. As if everything he did created some kind of answering vibration within her.
“The...the roundups,” she began, stammering slightly. “What’s the difference between the ones you do in the spring and the ones you do in the fall?”
“Fall roundup is for sorting, selling, weaning and moving cattle to winter pastures. Spring is for branding, earmarking, dehorning, castrating and vaccinating. Most of that’s done on the calves that have been born since the last roundup. We also sell off some yearlings—those born the spring before.”
“I’m sorry I asked.” Shannon grimaced. “Spring sounds hard on the male calves.”
“It is, but it has to be done.”
“Otherwise you’d have too many bulls?”
“A steer—which is what a castrated calf grows up to be—yields a higher-quality meat.”
“What’s earmarking?”
“Little notches are cut in the ears. It’s another form of identification, like branding. We have ours, other ranches have theirs.”
“You have to do both? Why? I know a long time ago there were rustlers—that’s why brands started being used. But today?”
“You should talk to Morgan Hughes. He’s our foreman’s son. Works for the Cattlemen’s Association. He can tell you a few things about modern-day cattle rustling. He’s like a detective. Trying to put a stop to it is what he does for a living.”
“Cattle rustling is bad today?”
“Almost as bad as it ever was. Methods have just changed with the times.”
“My goodness.”
He found her reply amusing. “Your daddy knew about it. That’s one of the first things he and Aunt Mae locked horns about. She was backing one type of change in legislation, and he was backing another.”
“Who won?” Shannon asked.
“Your daddy.”
“My goodness,” she said again.
“Aunt Mae’s nose was out of joint for about a year after that. Then she settled down and started fighting for her changes all over again, until she finally got a form of what she wanted put through. All this was done behind the scenes of course. Aunt Mae doesn’t like to be in the limelight.” He laughed. “The funny thing is, she doesn’t like talking on the telephone, either. She�
��s afraid other people can listen in. I guess that’s because the way the system used to operate out here when phone service first started. In those days, people could listen in. You waited until you heard your ring—two longs and a short, say—then you picked up. But so could anyone else on your circuit, and they usually did. Entertainment was scarce out here. People even spoke right up about what they’d overheard, as if they were part of the conversation!” He laughed. “I can’t convince her that the system’s changed. She’s made plenty of calls in her time, though, to get her political changes through the state legislature. Then there were her personal visits to Austin.”
“Did she do that a lot? Go to Austin?”
“Whenever she felt she had to.”
“She claims to have met me when I was ten.”
“She said that?”
Shannon nodded.
“Then it’s got to be true.”
“I don’t remember her. Wouldn’t you think I’d remember her?”
“Ten-year-olds live in their own worlds.”
“Are you speaking from experience or memory?”
“Memory.”
“You did your share of digging for gold then, did you?” Shannon asked.
“She’s told you about that, too?”
“I’m writing the family history, remember? Do you believe the legend’s true?”
“I’d like to think so. But I’m afraid it’s like Santa Claus. A nice idea, but not real.”
He pulled his horse to a halt when they reached a windmill and a low, round water-filled trough. “This is a good place to stop and walk around,” he said, and slid out of the saddle.
Shannon gauged the level of the setting sun. “Will we be able to get back before dark?”
“I know the way,” he said, and his teasing look had her sliding from the saddle, as well.
“I’m not afraid of the dark,” she boasted.
“Only of the things in it?”
West Texas Match (The West Texans Series #1) Page 14
