“I will act and dress as I must in order to run this ranch best I can. It was Pa’s dream to have a ranch here, and Mama understood that. Now it’s up to me to make it happen, any way I can.”
* * * *
Nick squinted into the brightness beyond the kitchen porch and surveyed his temporary base.
Widow woman .
He hadn’t worked up any particular imaginings when the bartender used the phrase. He’d been thinking mostly that working through the season at the Circle T would suit his purposes. And if serving his needs happened to help a widow woman . . . Well, that padre at the mission used to say a grain of sand could outweigh a mountain come Judgment Day, and this had seemed an easy way to pick up a grain of good.
His mouth twisted in derision that such a naive notion remained anywhere in him.
And look where it got him.
Widows could be gentle, gray-haired ladies or steely-eyed harridans or anything in between. Anything except a slim young woman who looked hardly old enough to be married, with wheat-colored hair and direct, hazel eyes so soft they cut to a man’s gut. Especially when they studied him with equal amounts of shock and heat in a look that had made him harder than any whore’s practiced touch.
Anything except that.
Maybe if her outfit hadn’t so sorely needed help, he’d have taken his misguided expectations about widow ladies and ridden off toward whatever turn of the compass appealed.
But riding in, he’d seen gaps between the barn’s cottonwood logs big enough to put a fist through. The lodgepole pine of the main house and bunkhouse looked in better shape. The house, with rooms attached like a crazy quilt, was clean, but the office curtains were faded and the chair worn. The bunkhouse’s stove might or might not offset breezes from a pair of loose-fitted windows, trio of doors and uncountable cracks.
On the other hand, a pair of good-sized corrals and the fences around a barnyard where chickens pecked and a couple pigs rooted showed recent attention.
Priorities on the Circle T were clear, even though Doyle Shagwell said they were so shorthanded they’d trailed cattle home from spring roundup in two trips. It took fewer men to hold a herd than to trail it, so they’d divided the herd, left a few hands to hold the second half and brought the first to Circle T range. Then they turned around to do it again—while other outfits had returned to their home ranches.
The Circle T surely did need him. Him and a dozen more.
He cursed under his breath.
Hell, he should have kept riding. He didn’t need the job, not really. Riding away might add to his mountain of sins, but what did it matter? No grains of good deeds could outweigh a mountain.
“Nick, come get your string,” Shag shouted from the corral.
He stepped off the porch, heading that way, still chewing on whether to saddle Brujo and head out
“Just getting Davis and Henry here to saddle up, so I can show ‘em round a bit,” the gray-haired foreman said as Nick neared the fence. “That lot over there’s yours.”
Nick followed Shag’s nod toward five horses watching warily from a far corner of the corral. The horses had witnessed their fellows being roped—a sure sign of work to come—and they were on the lookout to avoid the same fate. One, a wiry gray, promised to be good for spelling Brujo. A buckskin Nick rated as better than most. The other three he’d examine more closely later. No outright crow bait, but nothing to match the stock in the barn.
“Why don’t you saddle up old Miner, Davis,” Shag suggested to the fair-haired youngster also hired on.
Nick considered the horses allotted to the other new hands. When a foreman divvied up mounts there was no appeal. Getting a string of broomtails told a hand he wasn’t much valued by the outfit. Also that his job would be a damned sight harder. From what Nick saw Shag made even selections, with Davis and Henry each getting one real likely-looking mount.
The one called Miner, though, caught Nick’s eye. As did the reaction of the two hands introduced as Joe-Max and Tommy, who’d assisted in the roping and now lingered on the outside of the corral fence as if expecting a show.
A greenhorn show.
Nick swung his regard to the big, deep-chested sorrel horse named Miner.
He was fat and rested, with that edgy energy of a horse not ridden lately. Nick moved in, running a hand down his flank as if to gauge the animal. What he really wanted was to get near enough for a low-voiced question to gauge the human.
“Done much riding, Andresson?”
The youngster continued strapping the saddle on the apparently docile horse. “I’ve ridden.”
“Farm horses?”
“So what. That don’t—”
Nick cut across the defensive answer. “Ever ridden a bucking horse?”
That stilled the long-fingered hands and brought Andresson’s head around. Blue eyes regarded him with surprise, abruptly replaced by understanding. And worry mixed with determination.
Nick sighed.
“Keep your feet firm in the stirrups, try to sit straight as you can and use your arm to balance. If you hold on to the horn, they’ll rib you for pulling leather, but if it’s a choice of grabbing hold or getting thrown, hold on like hell.”
Davis Andresson stared at him a second longer. “Okay,” he said gruffly. “Thanks.”
He fastened the final buckle before letting down the stirrups to accommodate his long, gangly legs. He took hold of the saddle horn, preparing to mount.
Nick went to Miner’s head, fiddling with the headstall to mask another low-voiced murmur. “If you get thrown, don’t fight it. Roll. Get to your feet soon as you hit. Understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
The youngster swung a long leg over Miner’s back and signaled to release the horse’s head. Nick stepped free, and waited.
Miner held absolutely still an instant, followed by a rolling ripple of muscles under his hide. Then the animal leaped straight into the air like a jack-in-the-box. He came to earth in a splash of dust with legs ramrod stiff, sending a shudder through the ground that Nick felt through the soles of his boots up to his knees, and a shudder through Davis Andresson that snapped his head forward then back like a whip.
Right about now the boy had to feel as if his spine had come unjointed. But he held on.
Miner jumped crow-legged in a line, giving Andresson a chance to straighten in the saddle and tighten his legs’ grip. Nose in the dirt, the horse tucked his head between his front legs and kicked out with the rear. Andresson adjusted his balance. For a rocky moment Miner abruptly returned to his first strategy of leaps followed by ground-shuddering landings, complicated by spinning. Nick could see how Miner had earned his name—he seemed set on boring to the center of the earth.
While the leather straps of the saddle groaned dismay, Andresson gamely clung to the animal amid rising spurts of dust. And damned if he wasn’t murmuring soft words to the horse, even if they did come through clenched teeth.
The jolts subsided, and in another minute, the whole thing was over. Miner standing still, a sheen of perspiration gilding his coat and his muscles twitching, but his ears flicking attentively to the words spoken by the boy on his back.
“Nice riding!” shouted Shag. Henry and the two spectator hands added praise, though they didn’t linger with the entertainment ending so tamely.
Andresson guided Miner to where Nick stood by the fence.
“Thanks.” A shy smile lifted Davis’ mouth.
“You’re the one who held on.”
“I might not have without the warning, so I say thanks.” His stubbornness was at odds with his mild manner.
Nick shrugged, turned away—and came face-to-face with the Widow Terhune, who stood outside the fence.
Their eyes locked. Hers were warm and shrewd. He didn’t know how long she’d watched, but he’d swear she had the situation figured.
And there was more in her eyes. A kind of speculation, and a faintly begrudging approval.
He tried to build irritation
at that. He didn’t need her approval, and he sure didn’t need some widow woman ranch owner assessing him the way he had the stock. He could ride off right now.
But when she gave him a nod of acknowledgment that carried some more of that approval, he simply looked at her as she walked away.
* * * *
Rachel escaped the supper table quickly, holing up behind the desk and the ever-present task of keeping the books. Supper lay heavy in the pit of her stomach. A result of eating in the presence of a sphinx, she supposed.
Nick Dusaq hadn’t said a word to her since he’d walked out of this room this morning. He hadn’t gotten in her way. He hadn’t sent his eyes her way at meals. And she couldn’t stop wondering about him.
What was he thinking? What did he remember? What if he said something? What would he say?
“Well, what do you think, Chell?”
Shag’s question cut across her own. She hadn’t even heard the door open.
“About what?” she asked warily.
“About the new hands, ‘specially that Nick Dusaq.”
Did Shag know something? Had Dusaq talked about the encounter at the pond?
She felt her cheeks heating and she barely had the breath to ask, “What do you mean?”
He pinned her with a look from under bushy brows, but said mildly enough, “It’s only been a day, but I’m sorta looking forward to all the days that’ll follow and how we can pat ourselves on the back. Looks to me like we made ourselves a good hire. A real good hire. And you struck one sharp bargain on his wages.”
“Oh . . .” Movement beyond the window caught her eye—a figure crossed the yard from the bunkhouse to the outer corral. She recognized Dusaq in the waning light by the lean outline and loose-jointed assurance of his walk. “As you said, it’s one day.”
“Yeah. But so far it sure looks like a good day’s work.” Shag stretched. “Think I’ll turn in. I’ll leave first light to check that north camp. I’ll take a couple boys with me now that we’ve got ‘em. I thought Nick and Davis. Okay with you?”
“Sure. Good night. Shag.”
“Night, Chell.”
Alone, she stared out the window.
It’s only been a day . . . and all the days to follow.
Shag might look forward to them; she didn’t. Wondering if, when, what Nick Dusaq might say. Those questions had driven her to the corral this morning. She’d seen him tell Andresson something before the cowhand got up on that old reprobate Miner. And after Andresson handled the rough ride creditably, she’d heard his thanks.
So, he’d helped out a greenhorn. That didn’t make him any saint. And it sure didn’t guarantee he wouldn’t enjoy regaling the bunkhouse with how he’d had the owner of the Circle T gawking at him like a silly schoolgirl.
Even with the good men they had now, it was hard to keep their respect for a woman owner. Nick Dusaq could make it impossible.
That had fretted her all day. Even as she’d helped Henry set up a makeshift blacksmithing shed. Even as she organized a crew to get the wood Henry said he’d use for charcoal since they had no blacksmithing coal. Even as she showed Henry what needed mending. Even as she tended Warrior and the other horses in the barn. Even as she answered the questions and gave the orders that peppered her every day at the Circle T.
Would Nick Dusaq say something, sometime, somewhere?
She had to do something. And she had to do it now. Before any more days followed like this one.
Chapter Two
“Mr. Dusaq.”
He took two more steps on his intended path before he stopped and turned to where she stood in the shadow by the corner of a shed. His face might not reveal much, but his movements right now said reluctant.
That gave her courage.
“I told you, call me Nick.”
She supposed she shouldn’t rile him right this moment.
“I’d like a word . . . uh, Nick.”
“Ma’am.” He accepted with no eagerness.
She looked around. No one else was in sight, but they’d be spotted by anyone coming out of the bunkhouse or Shag and Ruth’s cabin. She didn’t want any wonderings or questions over what she might have to discuss with this particular cowhand in private.
“Let’s go in the barn.” A moment ticked past before his hat dipped in acquiescence, then he tucked his hands in the front pockets of his pants and took a half step back for her to precede him. In every move, she sensed his reluctance.
Sufficient moonlight leeched into the barn through the open door and the less than impenetrable walls and roof that she easily made her way to where Warrior stuck his head out of a stall. The stallion nosed at her, nodding his head several times, then stamped a hoof.
“He’s wanting to get out.”
Dusaq’s voice sent a current of uneasiness through her, even though she’d been aware of him behind her. She just hadn’t been aware he’d followed close enough that when he spoke, his breath stirred the tendrils worked loose of her braid, brushing them against her forehead with a tickling that made her shiver, though she wasn’t the least cold.
“He had a bad gash in his shoulder. I want to be sure it’s full healed.”
“Looked healed to me.”
As if in agreement, the stallion nodded twice and pushed at her shoulder again. She smiled as she gave the insistent nose a good rub. He was a handsome dun with black tail, mane and stripe down his spine. He also was intelligent, durable and good-natured. His get had few blemishes and even fewer defects. If she had two more stallions like him, the Circle T would have the best cow horses in the area—no question.
“When did you look at Warrior?”
“Told you, when I rode in.” He reached a hand over her shoulder, and Warrior snuffled at it inquisitively.
The reference to their interview this morning reminded her of what she’d brought him here to talk about. She stepped sideways, no longer caught between the horse and the man.
“You had him since a foal?”
She suspected he already knew the answer. Bunkhouse conversation would have filled him in quickly enough on the outlines of her life and her notions about breeding cow ponies. She pushed aside thoughts of what else he might have heard. Or what he might have said.
“Yes. But that’s not what—”
“Can’t breed one stallion. Bloodlines’ll get too narrow.”
She tried to make out his face in the filtering darkness. She couldn’t from the distance she’d put between them, and finally took a step forward.
“You know about breeding?”
“Some.”
That was how he’d answered Shag’s question about cattle. She suspected this was an equal understatement.
“I’m using other studs besides Warrior.” Hearing his name, the horse stretched his neck for another rub. She steppedintogive the required caress, also cutting her distance from Nick Dusaq. Beyond the familiar smells of horse and hay and barn, she caught a faint scent that must have been the man. Leather and clean sweat on cotton and sunshine-soaked skin. Pa smelled like that. “I trade with other folks around who’re interested in raising cow ponies.”
“Been interested long?”
She smiled, lulled by his neutral tone and her memories.
“All my life. Mama used to chase me out of the barn or in from the range long enough to teach me lessons and give me lectures on behaving like a lady. She’d wrinkle her nose and say no matter what she did, I smelled too much like a horse to ever be mistaken for a lady. Then she’d laugh and hug me. Then after . . .” She heard her own quick sigh as the memories turned painful. “She died when I was thirteen. Pa didn’t have the heart to spend much time in the house with Mama gone. I helped him run the Circle T. Until—”
What am I doing? With something near horror, Rachel stared at the dark, still man before her. She couldn’t believe how much she’d told this stranger. And how much more she’d been on the verge of telling him. Far more than bunkhouse talk ever would divulge, becaus
e the only people alive who knew the rights of it were her, Shag and Ruth. “I’m sorry,” she said stiffly. “I had no call to run on like that.”
He hitched one shoulder in a brief shrug. “Folks need to talk sometimes.”
“You don’t.” She instantly regretted that.
To her amazement, the lines around his mouth slowly lifted, his lips turned up and a slash of white appeared as Nick Dusaq grinned. It wrought a devastating change to his face, charming and inviting. She stared at him, with just enough presence of mind to keep from gaping.
“I’m not most folks,” he said, amusement in his voice. Then, as slowly as it had come, the grin vanished until his face settled into its incommunicative mold. “And some things don’t need saying.”
No telling what he had in mind, but she had something that did need saying. Or she’d jump right out of her skin before another sundown with Nick Dusaq around.
“Well,” she started, briskly if unoriginally, “what I wanted to talk to you about, Mr. Dusaq—”
“Nick.”
“Uh, Nick . . . What I want to make clear is that whatever contact—no, I mean . . . uh, encounter. Whatever encounter might have taken place between us before our hiring you, well, that was before.” She darted a glance at him. “And . . .”
Her words faded as a longer look confirmed what the glance had gathered. He wore not a hint of expression.
That irked her. Without stopping to consider why it irked her or if she wanted a reaction, she demanded, “You do remember encountering me at Jasper Pond, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
Pa had once shown her a hot spring in the dead of winter, edged with a skin of ice. If you pushed your hand below the layer of ice, the water steamed your fingers red in no time. That was what his single word reminded her of. Heat—dangerous heat—under ice.
She swallowed, and sought the protection of words. “Well, that was before you came here and hired on. Not that it was anything. It wasn’t. I don’t want you misunderstanding or thinking things that aren’t so. I’m the boss at the Circle T. And I don’t want there to be any confusion on that. Not with you and not with any of the other boys, if you should go talking about, um, about things.”
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