Widow Woman

by Patricia McLinn

  Rachel swallowed a sigh. Maybe she could slip away before Ruth let loose.

  “Boys, this here’s the owner of the Circle T, Rachel Terhune.” Shag nodded to a wiry man who stood across the long table where the hands ate. “This is Henry.”

  Rachel smiled at the leathery-faced man, though she had to prop up the smile when she saw the faint tremor in his hands and the bleariness of his eyes.

  The smile turned genuine and almost escaped as a chuckle as the towhead whom Shag introduced as Davis tangled his long legs with a straight-backed wooden chair in his hurry to stand, then nearly capsized the heavy table and himself in his effort to stop the chair from falling.

  “Ma’am,” the youngster croaked before subsiding as far away from her as he could get.

  “And this is Nick.”

  She turned as the final candidate emerged from a shadow beyond Shag.

  The air in her lungs burned and her muscles felt weighted and foreign.

  As her foreman told the three men that Ruth would give them breakfast, then they’d talk one at a time with him and Mrs. Terhune, she stared at the man. His big hand cupped the front of his deep-brimmed hat, tipping it in a courtesy she’d seen a thousand times. For the first time it struck her how the gesture obscured the man’s features in a shadow of privacy. But even when this man settled the hat on his dark hair, lifting some of the shadow, his eyes showed nothing as they met hers.

  The heat branding her cheeks surely meant her expression was not nearly as unreadable.

  One look at her, and the stranger would know that she recognized him as the man from the pond, even with his clothes on.

  * * * *

  “You might as well handle these hirings,” Rachel said with as much casualness as she could muster once she and Shag left the kitchen for the room they used as an office.

  “What?” Shag dragged out the syllable in astonishment, looking around as if he didn’t recognize the log walls, although he’d helped smooth them.

  It was the first addition her father had made to a one-room outpost when he’d ranged cattle here even before the Indians were moved off after the ‘76 wars. The Indians had let it stand because Oren Phillips promised them a number of steers each year, and stuck to it, not trying to pass off old or sick animals.

  That first log structure now served as kitchen, and the addition’s use had changed with each later addition—and now was office and dining room. A big walnut desk was at one end. Her parents had brought it from St. Louis, and in the old house it had served as Rachel’s schoolroom under her mother’s tutelage. Now it was headquarters of the Circle T, and on it rested the ranch’s account books.

  For the moment, those books had been set to one side, making way for the beefsteak, biscuits and gravy Ruth had brought. The few times Rachel and Shag didn’t join the hands in the kitchen they ate at the desk, talking over Circle T matters. Rachel ducked her head, pretending greater interest in her biscuit than she felt. Shag might just pass off her decision without more comment if she didn’t make much of it.

  The foreman’s next words killed that hope.

  “Can’t be Chell saying that, can it? The one not satisfied unless she’s in the middle of everything on the Circle T. Leastwise, the woman who rode out yesterday followed that trail . . . . But when she forgets Dandy’s no night horse, maybe something’s happened to her. Maybe—”

  “All right. I just thought it would save time. ‘We need whoever we can get.’ Isn’t that what you said?”

  “That’s what I said, and it’s God’s truth. But there’s taking what you have to and then there’s not looking into what it is you’ve gotten.”

  “I said all right. So call the first one in.”

  With Shag continuing to look as if her brain had sprung a leak, interviewing the first two candidates provided a welcome diversion. She discovered Henry came West as a soldier, worked as a freighter and ran a road ranch. The indisputable length of his career was somewhat offset by his assurance that he mended wagons and did blacksmithing.

  Twice the time was required to extract from the second candidate the bare essentials of name (Davis Andresson), age (twenty-one, to her surprise), home (an Iowa farm) and experience with cattle (none). But Andresson did have, he promised in an earnest burst, a strong back, a knack with animals and a desire to become a cowboy.

  After a quarter of an hour, the Circle T had two new hands at a bargain rate of twenty-five dollars a month each.

  “We’ll have to start at thirty with this last one,” Shag said before he opened the door for the final applicant. “But looks to me he’d be worth it, even if we push to forty.”

  Rachel said nothing.

  The man must have recognized her. Would he make reference to their meeting yesterday? What would she say? How should she act?

  “Come on in,” Shag invited, “and have a seat.”

  Rachel had risen from behind the desk to shake hands with Henry; she’d found that went far to show the cowhands she was boss first, a lady second. That helped ease the shyness that could strike these rough men in the face of a woman who didn’t entertain in a room over a saloon. Trying to set young Davis at ease, she’d stayed on his side of the desk.

  When the tall, lanky man called Nick walked in, boot heels thudding decisively on the floor and spurs jangling discreetly, she knew an urge to retreat to behind the bulk of the desk. Instead, she propped herself against the edge in a way Ruth would have scolded over. Shag stood to one side. With an easy economy of motion Nick took a chair in front of the desk.

  His black hat remained on. His leather stovepipe leggings protected stout work pants. His shirt was a clean white, his black vest buttoned neatly, and his brown jacket and boots bore only a thin layer of the ever-present drab dust.

  His black eyes went around the room with no indication of discomfort, with no indication he recognized her from yesterday. In fact, with no indication of anything at all.

  Shag cleared his voice into the stretching silence.

  She should ask a question. But the only ones that occurred to her had to do with ponds and naked men and the look in a pair of heated black eyes that planted burning coals in her stomach.

  “You know cattle?”

  Shag’s question to Nick cut across her thoughts so abruptly she jerked. Neither man paid her any heed. “Some.”

  “Where you from, Nick?”

  “Texas.”

  “Been in Wyoming before?”

  He nodded, a single, economical inclination of his head. “Few years ago. Stayed a year, then up to Montana. After a while, to California. A good bit ‘round San Francisco.”

  Nothing unusual there; some cowhands stayed put, more roamed.

  “You came here from California?”

  “Texas. Came up with a drive to near Chugwater.”

  That explanation raised a number of questions. Shag attacked them one at a time. “When’d you get to Chugwater?”

  “Couple, three weeks ago.”

  “Awful early drive. Or awful fast.”

  “Some of both,” the stranger acknowledged. “The owner needed to get the herd through.”

  And had been willing to gamble against early-spring bad weather and the dangers of trailing cattle too hard, Rachel thought, welcoming the familiar concerns of ranching.

  “What’d you do on the drive, Nick?” Shag pursued.

  “Trail boss.”

  The laconic reply held no intonation, but Rachel saw his lips compress at the corners. He’d been reluctant to reveal that. It certainly made Shag look at him closely. Why would someone trusted as boss on such a risky drive take work midseason, and at such a small outfit?

  “How many’d you lose?” Shag asked.

  “None.”

  The answer held pride, as well it might. It also held the unspoken assurance that this man not only had brought in all the cattle, he’d brought them in in good condition. It was that kind of pride. And in that pride, Rachel recognized a fuller answer to Shag’
s earlier question. Did this man know cattle? Yes, indeed.

  “What brought you up this way from Chugwater?”

  “Remembered the country. It’s good cattle country.”

  “Yep, it is at that,” Shag said.

  The foreman sent her a look she read easily. First, he wanted to hire on this man. Shag might wonder about some things, but unless this Nick proved unreliable, he’d be accepted; a man’s past was private as long as he caused no trouble in the present. Second, Shag couldn’t understand why she hadn’t jumped in with questions. And, finally, he wanted to know why she didn’t have the sense to sign this man up fast? They couldn’t hardly pass hiring a cowhand like this one looked to be.

  “Why did—” Her voice came out tight. She swallowed quickly and started again. “Why did you come here looking for a job?”

  Without moving, he shifted his gaze to her. “I heard a widow woman running the Circle T needed hands.”

  With a clarity that amazed her at the same time she accepted it absolutely, Rachel knew he had expected an older woman. And he was not pleased to be mistaken.

  She straightened her spine. If he didn’t like working for a woman not yet thirty, let him say it. “I am a woman.” Something slid into his eyes; she hurried past it. “I am a widow—my husband died four years ago. I run the Circle T. And we do need hands.”

  He met her challenging look with his dark eyes giving nothing back. “Okay, I’ll take the job.”

  Her lips parted as she realized he’d maneuvered her as slickly as a good cow horse would a recalcitrant calf. She could swear a glimmer of humor sparked in his eyes.

  Before she could say anything in response, the stranger added, “What’s the pay?”

  “Twenty-five a month,” she got in before Shag could answer.

  “Little low.”

  Little low? Thirty was a little low. Twenty-five was near insulting for a top hand. A lot of men’s pride wouldn’t let them take that little unless desperate. He surely had the pride and he didn’t look desperate.

  “Plus your keep. And there’s no finer cooks in this country than my Ruth and Fred, who’s camp cook.” Shag offered the enticements to Nick at the same time he glared at her. “Same for the horses. Nobody can say they don’t get a good string at the Circle T.”

  “I mostly use my black.”

  “Since you’re using your own horse,” Shag said, “we could go thirty a month, right, Chell?”

  If she said no, they’d lose him, and they needed the help. But the idea of having him around every day made her squirm against the hard edge of the desk.

  “Twenty-seven-fifty.” Ignoring Shag’s frown, she surreptitiously shifted her fanny.

  “And feed for my horse,” he bargained.

  “Sounds fair,” Shag said quickly.

  Both men stared at her. She couldn’t run the Circle T without hands. That was what it came down to. She had no choice.

  She gave a short, reluctant nod.

  “Okay,” Shag said on a long exhalation. “Pay’s by the month. Mrs. Terhune will get you signed up official, then come on out and I’ll show you where to stow your gear and get you started.”

  Shag hurried from the room as if afraid she’d change her mind. Rachel circled the desk, took her chair, adjusted the account book precisely, dipped the nib in ink and raised it expectantly.

  When nothing happened, she looked up at the Circle T’s newest hand to find him sitting as he had all along. She raised her eyebrows.

  He gave no response.

  “I need your name to put in the book,” she said with exaggerated patience.

  “Nick.”

  “I need your full name for the records.”

  “They call me Nick.”

  She blew out an exasperated breath. “Is that what your mama and daddy baptized you?”

  In his otherwise impassive face, a flicker crossed his eyes that left her oddly chilled.

  “Close enough,” he said.

  She wanted to know the story behind that, but she wasn’t about to ask. Nor would she give in—not entirely. “I need a last name.”

  After a long pause, he answered absolutely flat, “Dusaq.”

  “Ends with a k?”

  “Q.”

  “Okay, Mr. Dusaq. Pay’s by the month like Shag said. You’ll work running through fall roundup.” Any experienced hand knew all that, but she needed words to cover the silence that seemed to accompany this man. “Shag’ll tell you the rest. He should be out by the barn.”

  She thought the dismissal obvious. He didn’t move.

  “I saw horses in the barn when I came in.”

  “Horses are often kept in a barn in this part of the country, Mr. Dusaq. Stables are a luxury.”

  “Look to be special horses.” He showed no reaction to her sarcasm. Still, she immediately felt shamed. Not having a proper stable for her horses always lightened her trigger, but her response had more to do with the asker than the question. The man made her uncomfortable. But that gave her no excuse for bad manners. No excuse, either, to risk having him quit before he’d started.

  Besides, he’d called her horses special.

  “We’ve been working to breed top horses for working with cattle.”

  “Good cow pony can do two men’s work.”

  “That’s it exactly. That’s . . .” Embarrassment swamped her. She’d automatically leaned forward, toward the agreement. She eased back. “Up to now, good cow ponies have been found instead of made, Mr. Dusaq. We’re trying to breed them, to improve the bloodlines by crossbreeding. It works with racehorses back East and in England, so I hope . . .”

  Through the window’s wavy glass, she saw a corner of the barn that sheltered her horses in the worst weather. It needed rechinking and the roof was as solid as a sieve. But if she couldn’t turn a profit with the cattle, she’d never have the money to pursue her ideas for breeding and training. In fact, if she couldn’t start turning a profit, she wouldn’t have the Circle T at all.

  She recognized the silence only after it had stretched too long to be ignored. Turning to the newly hired hand, she found him studying her. His face gave away nothing. Renewed discomfort welled in her. She should send him away as far and as fast as she could.

  “Sounds like a good idea,” he said.

  She stared for a handful of seconds until she realized he meant her horse-breeding efforts, not sending him away. Before she could muster a response, he had risen.

  “Ma’am.” His polite mutter of departure and the tipping of his hat tightened the reins on her impulse to order him off the Circle T right here and now. They needed him. No getting around that.

  At the open door, he paused.

  “Don’t call me Mr. Dusaq.”

  It was an order.

  * * * *

  “If your mama was still alive, having you out all night like that would have killed her.”

  Rachel started at Ruth’s voice, guiltily wondering how long she’d been staring at the latest name written in the account book. Instead of commenting on Ruth’s twisted logic, she stood and began putting dirty breakfast dishes on the tray Ruth had brought in.

  It didn’t appease Ruth. Arms akimbo she studied Rachel.

  “Look at you. What your mama would say to see you in such a costume . . .”

  That seemed a bit unfair to Rachel, since Ruth herself had fashioned this and two other wide-legged split skirts from heavy tan canvas twill. Although Ruth had done it only after Rachel threatened to wear a pair of Pa’s old trousers, since her skills with a needle didn’t stretch to such a garment. She’d learned the rudiments of sewing from Mama, as she had the basics of cooking and running a house, but her education in such matters had ended abruptly with her mother’s death. From then on her education had come from Pa, and had covered a much different sphere—cattle, horsemanship and the land.

  “And don’t you be rolling up your sleeves every minute or you’ll be brown as a berry.”

  Surreptitiously, Rac
hel eased a horn button through a hole in the front panel Ruth insisted on adding to the split skirts. With front and back panels buttoned, the skirt looked as respectable as any other. Unbuttoned, Rachel had the freedom to ride astride.

  “Don’t bother yourself with buttoning up for my sake,” Ruth said crossly. “I suppose next you’ll go galloping into town looking like this.”

  That struck Rachel as highly unfair. She made a real effort to keep a neat appearance when she went into town or otherwise out among society. “You know I won’t do that.

  “I suppose I should be grateful,” said Ruth, sounding anything but. “Though with the way hands talk and with you going like this to roundups and all, I don’t suppose it matters, since every soul in the territory likely has heard about wild Mrs. Terhune up Jasper Creek. How on earth you think you’ll ever find a man—”

  “I don’t want a man.” Her stock response to Ruth’s laments came out without thinking and with the conviction of habit. Then an image of a bronzed, wet body rising out of a pond flashed across her mind.

  “That’s as may be, but you won’t have any choice if you don’t take heed, young lady. If only you’d use a proper saddle. I could stitch you a new costume from that melton cloak of your mama’s.”

  “I couldn’t rope sidesaddle, and I couldn’t cut cattle worth anything. Not to mention I couldn’t even get in the thing by myself. A lot of good I’d be on the range using one of those.”

  “Riding and roping, my sweet saints!” What Ruth knew about Rachel’s activities on the range and what she could successfully ignore as long as she wasn’t reminded, were two different matters. “I shudder to think what your mother would say about her daughter behaving so.”

  “Mama would be proud of me.” Fearing the ground under that statement might sink like an alkali bog, Rachel hurried on. “Pa would be proud of me for roping and riding and—” Ruth interrupted with a sniff eloquent in its low opinion of Oren Phillips’s suitability for determining proper behavior for a young woman.