Widow Woman

by Patricia McLinn

  “Went to town. Staying at a ho-tel tonight so she can gussy-up for meeting the buyer first thing, and get us our wages.”

  “Seems odd not having her around, don’t it,” Davis ventured.

  Tommy agreed, and a mood of nostalgia settled over the dozen men, with the talk recalling incidents of the season not quite passed like cherished memories of childhood.

  Nick shifted on the hard ground. You’d think these men considered one another real friends instead of a group of strange cowhands paid a wage to do a job.

  “If you like the work and the trail so much,” Nick drawled in his first contribution, “guess you’ll stay in camp instead of celebrating in town.”

  “Hell, no,” said Joe-Max, affronted. That drew laughs all around, and the talk turned to what delights the town held in store for them.

  “Gonna get me some of that licorice I got last year.” Fred smacked his lips.

  “Or something sweeter,” Tommy said with a grin.

  Hammer Butte wasn’t near as big as some Kansas cattle towns Nick had seen on drives from Texas, but it was bigger than Chelico and the railroad brought in such wondrous items as a piano for the best saloon, ready-made clothes and fancy materials for sale at the dry goods store and a tiny gentleman from somewhere called Belgium who made fine boots and saddles. All in all, it offered more by way of civilization than these hands saw in a month of Sundays.

  And mention of it got their talk off the Circle T.

  Nick wished he was as successful with his thoughts while he rode night guard. He would set his mind on planning what he’d do now that he owned a spread, and it would circle right around on him to the Circle T and its owner.

  Relieved by the next watch, he and Davis and Joe-Max found Shag saddling up in the dark when they rode in.

  “Well, boys, last night for night-herding for a while, huh?” he greeted them as they began unsaddling their night horses.

  “Fine with me. I’m so tired, I could sleep at a full gallop,” said Joe-Max, though he’d been one of the leaders in the earlier talk. A dose of watch could certainly rub the glow off a man.

  “Aw, hell, you can sleep all winter,” Shag chided. “For that matter you’ll sleep away your old age. Enjoy this while you can. Don’t last forever, you know.”

  “You’re sounding downright sentimental. You taking a final watch, Shag, just to say farewell?” asked Joe-Max.

  “I’m not that almighty fond of those critters,” the foreman grumbled, resettling his hat over hair that glinted silver in the faint moonlight. The others’ quiet chuckles didn’t stir the sleeping men, though one sharp word would have had them out of their rolls and heading to the horses. “No, I’m going into town to meet Mrs. Terhune and find out the arrangements. Start moving them in around sunup, and I’ll meet up with you at the pens.”

  Nick nodded as the foreman mounted and rode southeast toward town. On his way to meeting Rachel Terhune at the hotel. Where she likely slept this moment between soft, clean white sheets, her honey hair loose on the pillow.

  A deep sigh from beside him jerked Nick’s thoughts from that dangerous path as he settled into his less than soft, less than clean bedroll.

  “You got an ache, Andresson?”

  “Just thinkin’.” Another sigh. “It’s almost over.”

  “What?”

  “The season. The year. Being a hand.”

  Davis’ voice held a confiding tone. Perhaps he’d noticed that they were isolated, with the only other bedrolls this side of the fire deserted by hands gone on watch.

  “Shag’ll sign you on again come spring. Or catch on with another outfit if you’ve a mind to.”

  “Not if I go home to Iowa this winter. If I go back, I don’t think I’ll ever get free again.”

  “Just leave.”

  Another sigh stirred the night. “You don’t know my pa. He wouldn’t stand for me leaving again.”

  “Then don’t go back,” Nick said more sharply than he’d intended.

  “What’ll I do for the winter?”

  “Shag would probably let you stay at the Circle T. No wages, but you’d have your keep. Or ride the grub line. Folks’ll feed you, long as you bring them news.”

  “New places all the time?” Davis murmured with a singular lack of enthusiasm. “I don’t much like the idea of not working for my keep.”

  “I got a place you can stay.” The offer sounded grudging to Nick’s ears. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to help Davis or that he didn’t think Davis could help him. But he was accustomed to solitude.

  “What do you mean? Where?” Davis’ hopefulness made Nick feel mean for his reluctance.

  “The old Wallace place.”

  “The old Wall—that the spread northwest of the Circle T? Toward the mountains?”

  “Yeah. I bought it. Got the papers in Chelico.”

  “You bought—But a cowhand ain’t supposed to have any head—”

  “I don’t. Not yet. I got some land and ramshackle buildings. I’ll pull ‘em together best I can. Then I’ll bring up a small herd from Texas.”

  “Your own ranch,” Davis breathed, as if Nick planned a palace in the middle of the plains. Then again, maybe his plan sounded as outlandish. “Have you told—”

  “Nobody but you.”

  Even in the dark, he knew the weight of Davis’ look. “I won’t say anything, Nick.”

  Nick nodded. “I’ll give you ten a month to help repair the buildings this winter.”

  “Ten?”

  “It’s not much, but you’d earn your keep and have some money.”

  “I didn’t mean—Ten’s just fine. I’ll do it, and thanks, Nick. Thanks a lot. And maybe come spring, if you need somebody . . .”

  “Maybe. Now get some sleep or neither of us’ll be worth a tinker’s damn taking the herd in.”

  Davis obeyed almost immediately. But Nick lay for a long time, considering what he’d gotten himself into—taking on the old Wallace spread and taking on young Andresson. And he spent even longer trying not to dwell on one other thing he’d like to get himself into—the widow woman Terhune.

  * * * *

  They drove the herd slowly along the road to the railroad pens, which also was the town’s main street

  The younger hands shifted in their saddles, itching to hurry the process along, so they could collect their wages and break loose. The fact that they’d cut a more dashing figure whooping alongside a thundering stream of beef than they did astride placid mounts keeping pace with plodding cattle also chafed.

  But Shag and Nick, one on each side of the street, passed quiet reminders that the townspeople wouldn’t take kindly to a storm of dust.

  “Besides,” Nick told Tommy Hodge, “no sense running an ounce of meat off these carcasses after taking such trouble to baby them along.”

  “S’pose not,” Tommy muttered, casting a longing look at a young miss outside Benton’s Dry Goods, who stole glances at him from beneath her bonnet—and around her mother’s formidable bulk.

  Nick nudged Brujo on, indulging a slight smile. Tommy had talked a big story about cutting a wide swath in town. But here he was thinking of impressing that sort of girl instead of the ones sitting in the windows above the saloon.

  Nick’s eyes rose then, as if by instinct. But his gaze didn’t go to the Cattle Annies calling to him. It went directly to the narrow second-floor balcony boasted by the town’s most genteel establishment, the Pitch Hotel.

  Rachel Terhune stood next to a portly man with a ruff of carroty hair beneath a gleaming bald dome. His brown jacket, vest and pants matched and his shirt’s white sparkled. He smiled, though even from this distance Nick could see the sharpness of the man’s gaze as he surveyed the cattle heading to the boxcars.

  The man surely was the representative of the buyer. Shortly, he and the owner of the Circle T would tally the cattle delivered and get down to a final reckoning. Shag would be there later, but for now Rachel Terhune stood alone.

  He
’d never seen her before in anything but her canvas split skirts, faded calico work dresses or that old-fashioned riding habit she wore now and then. Her honey hair usually was hidden under sunbonnets or a wide-brimmed hat he suspected had been her father’s.

  Now she wore a dark dress, with black buttons down the front and beading around a white collar and cuffs as well as the hem. Her movements, with sunlight glinting off beading, showed the dress wasn’t as simple as he’d thought. It seemed to glide over her figure, except in back where lifted drapes of material swayed with even her tiniest motion.

  She’d drawn her shining hair up smoothly at the sides, caught there with combs, then gathered it at the base of her neck. Atop her head perched a small velvet bonnet, with its matching black bow tied precisely under her chin.

  A pretty girl like you should be wearing pretty dresses .

  No pretty dress here. But clothes befitting a widow woman. They reminded Nick all the more that the woman inside them was not the pitiful, declining figure he’d envisioned so long ago. She smiled at something her companion said as she turned her head, and her gaze locked with Nick’s. A strange, dull ache bloomed in his gut as her smile diminished. He ignored it.

  This was fitting. Rachel Terhune, decked in her widow’s weeds, standing high above where Nick Dusaq worked amid sweat and dust and stink.

  He had no call to touch a woman like her, as he’d reminded himself not so many days ago. Had no call to dream of a woman like her, as he reminded himself every night.

  He tugged at the brim of his hat in a farewell salute, then moved on with the cattle.

  * * * *

  “Get cleaned up so you don’t frighten the honest folk—and, you, Tommy, get that red mop of yours cut so nobody thinks the town’s on fire—then c’mon up to the hotel. Head of the stairs, then to the left,” Shag told the gathered hands after they’d counted and penned the last steer.

  “It’s a respectable hotel, so don’t go getting too rowdy.”

  The Circle T’s hands didn’t need that warning. If anything, the hotel’s propriety and the extreme demureness of two matrons they passed as they trooped up the stairs subdued them into shyness. Even though they’d taken the time to indulge in shaves, haircuts and hot baths that made them look an entirely different crew from the ruffians who’d brought their herd in that morning.

  As they waited to be called in, one by one, to the room where Shag dispensed their wages, there was a good deal of foot shuffling and throat clearing, and not much talk. Those who’d received their money didn’t linger, scooting away with promises to meet up with those still waiting at an establishment more in keeping with their temperament.

  They’d scatter soon enough after that, Nick reminded himself. Never see one another again, more than likely. These men, like all the others he’d worked with over the years, were temporary companions, nothing more.

  Nick was the last called in.

  Davis Andresson had left nearly a quarter hour earlier, pausing only to tell Nick that Shag had said there’d be a spot for him at the Circle T come spring if he wanted it.

  The door opened now and Henry, the second-to-last to be called, emerged, a smile wreathing his face.

  “Thanks, Shag. Thanks to you and Mrs. Terhune,” he said.

  “No thanks due. You’ll be working hard.”

  “Thanks just the same.” As he passed Nick, he announced in a confidential tone, “Staying on wages the winter, I am.”

  Nick dipped his head in acknowledgment of the older man’s satisfaction.

  “C’mon in, Nick.”

  Shag ushered him into the room, set up as a tiny sitting room with a side door Nick figured led to the bedroom occupied by the Widow Terhune. The foreman went to a small table by the tall window that opened to the balcony. Shag made a notation in a big book and, without any ado, handed over the season’s wages.

  “Wish it was more,” he said. “You’re a top hand. You should be drawing top wages.”

  “It’s what we agreed to.”

  “How would you know, Nick? You pocketed it without counting.”

  “You warning me you’ve taken to cheatin’, Shag? Figured you as too old a dog to learn new tricks like that.”

  Shag let out a deep laugh. “I am at that.”

  That seemed as good a note as any to end his association with the Circle T, so Nick started for the door,

  “Hold on there, Nick. Not so fast. Got something else to talk to you about”

  Nick looked over his shoulder, but remained where he was.

  “I intended to work up to this gradual, but since you look to be in such an all-fired hurry, I’ll spit it out. We’d like for you to stay on this winter. We did all right this season, so we got a little more room to be thinking about what’s best for the Circle T instead of just hanging on. We lost so many head last winter, we thought we’d try keeping somebody out at the west camp. Keep an eye on things. We’d like it to be you.”

  Nick turned slowly to face the foreman. He met Shag’s eyes, trying to read beyond the words. With a jerk of his head toward the other door, he asked, “Her, too?”

  “You mean Mrs. Terhune?” Shag asked repressively. “She knows I’m asking you to stay on. She knows full well, same as me, that the herd came through better this summer because of having you on the range, and how you brung along young Davis to being a solid hand. We’d like to have you help make it a good winter for us, too—leastwise not as bad as last year. And we’d like to have you around come spring. You’re a good hand, Nick. Good for the Circle T. That’s what matters. To her and me.”

  Nick held silent and still. On the range he acted without hesitation, never letting doubt creep in, but this wasn’t a matter of reflexes or instinct. This was a decision, and it needed to be made right.

  “If you don’t want to stay on, Nick, we aren’t beggin’. We’ll do fine. It’s not top dollar, no denying that. So if you don’t want it, that’s fine by—”

  “Better call her in.” He interrupted Shag’s slightly irritable dismissal. “I got something to say you both should hear.”

  Chapter Six

  “I killed a man.”

  Rachel’s hands clenched in the lap of her best dress. Her eyes stared so hard at the black-and-charcoal-gray stripe that the narrow lines seemed to waver.

  It wasn’t Nick Dusaq’s words. She wasn’t surprised. There’d been something in him from the start.

  Maybe she’d been preparing herself for this from that first day. Or maybe just from minutes ago when Shag called her to the sitting room.

  As soon as she was seated, her foreman demanded, “So what is it you got to say, Nick?”

  And the man who had arrived as a stranger nearly four months ago answered, cool as ever, “I’m wanted in Texas.”

  In that instant she’d remembered his face when he’d gone after Harris for abusing Fanny and she’d known.

  No, it wasn’t the answer to Shag’s next demand of “What’re you wanted for?” that caused her hands to clench. It was the look in Nick’s black eyes that said he didn’t regret it.

  Even more, it was how much she wanted to know why Nick had killed and what could put that look in his eyes. She needed to know.

  She raised her head.

  “Why?” Her demand came hoarse and reedy.

  He flicked a look at her, then away.

  Shag cleared his throat. “Now, Chell, there’s reasons a man has that a woman shouldn’t—”

  “Were you drunk?” She sliced through Shag’s words, not taking her eyes off the dark-haired man standing on the other side of the small table.

  “No.” Nick stared over her left shoulder, his face impassive.

  “Was it over gambling?”

  “No.”

  “Over stealing?”

  “No.”

  “An accident? During a fight? Over politics?”

  “No.”

  “Was it over a woman?”

  She’d heard the saloon women calling to the
men this morning. They’d called to all the men. But not with the same admiring phrases they’d lavished on “Black Eyes.”

  Shag spoke up. “Chell, that’s not a fitting question—”

  “Not the way you mean it, Mrs. Terhune.”

  Under the quiet answer rested a bedrock of anger that brought silence to the room. It was almost as if Nick was angry at her.

  She loosened her hands’ grip to smooth her skirt, and lengthened her back with every inch of dignity she possessed. “What way was it then, Mr. Dusaq?”

  He looked full at her, and she almost wished he hadn’t. Still, she returned the look, unflinching,

  “He was married to my sister. He beat her. Been doing it awhile from what they said after I got back from California. Common knowledge. I rode out to their place. He’d broken her leg. She was on the floor, trying to drag herself away, and he was whipping her like a mule. I shot him.”

  Silence flowed across the room, as alive as a river, and with as many undercurrents.

  Eventually, Shag turned toward her. She knew he took Dusaq’s word, but his look said as clear as words that this was her decision.

  “You did what needed doing,” Shag said.

  Nick didn’t accept absolution. “I shouldn’t have let it happen, not to her.”

  “How could you have known?”

  “I should have known.”

  Rachel heard a whispered echo of similar words. Nick glaring at her, so angry she couldn’t understand it

  How could you leave anything you cared for in the hands of a man like that?

  I didn’t know what he’d do to Fanny. How could I?

  You should have. Goddammit, you should have known.

  Had his anger and accusation been for her over the care of a young horse, or for himself over the care of his sister?

  Nick’s eyes never changed. Not asking that she decide in his favor, not asking that she believe him, not asking a damn thing.

  She pinned her attention on the braiding of blue and red in the rug on the plank floor. She’d known the decision from the start, so that didn’t cause her hesitation. But something had shifted in the past few minutes, and she wasn’t sure what. Or maybe she just wasn’t sure how to deal with it.