Widow Woman

by Patricia McLinn

Two other Lazy W hands moved in, apparently eager to make their own reading. The cow started sidestepping nervously, and Bob Chapman, the Lazy W underforeman, waved them away. Chapman looked from Overton to Nick.

  “You two satisfied to let me decide this?”

  “I’m running this—”

  Nick cut across Overton’s bluster. “Yep.”

  Overton’s voice trailed off. “All right. If that’ll get us to work instead of jawing all day.”

  Chapman nodded. He moved toward the cow, she retreated, and a rustle of nervous laughter rose at the sight of the man following the cow. Brett tossed a loop over her head, holding her without raising her fight.

  Chapman smoothed his hand over the brand, squinted at it from amid wreaths of wrinkles, then slowly straightened and faced the other men.

  “Not the sharpest brand I’ve ever seen,” he started diplomatically. “But it’s Circle T. Burn it, and take the next one. We got a roundup to get on with.”

  The words were barely out of his mouth when Henry came shuffling from the fire with the Circle T branding iron.

  Nick nodded to Chapman and ignored Overton’s grumbles behind him. The other men quickly returned to their jobs, but he knew a good many would keep a closer eye on the brands than before. And Overton knew they’d be watching him. Most of all, Overton knew Nick was watching.

  By nightfall, Nick figured all the hands had heard the story. It was there in curious looks and more than once in newly friendly nods, most often from men representing the smaller spreads.

  By morning, all the owners would know as well.

  If they were at the Circle T, he might have found a way to talk to Rachel alone. Or maybe not.

  With the roundup camps running together, and especially with so much muted interest centering on him now, he wouldn’t want to invite speculation on why he’d sought out the Circle T’s owner.

  If he could help her . . . But he couldn’t. Not as much as he could hurt her.

  When he rode out of camp next morning toward his roundup crew’s assigned area, he wasn’t particularly surprised to be hailed by the owner of the KD Ranch. He was even less surprised that Thomas Dunn had the taut look of someone nursing anger.

  “Hear there was a problem yesterday, Dusaq,” Dunn said as he brought his horse alongside where Nick had stopped Marley. His gray suit wouldn’t keep its new-bought look if he took a hand in the roundup. But this owner wouldn’t be dirtying his hands that way.

  “It got settled.”

  “You must have watched mighty close to catch one slip-up.”

  Nick allowed himself a small smile that might have edged toward a sneer. “Can’t be too careful.”

  “A man can be a hell of a lot more careful than you’re being, Dusaq.” Dunn’s harshness betrayed how angry he was.

  Nick returned the man’s stare. His own anger rose like a tide of heat inside, but he’d held it there so long it seemed natural.

  “Meaning?” His voice, flat and smooth, gave Dunn nothing to hang an excuse on even if the rancher wanted to start something. But neither did his tone give any quarter.

  “Meaning—” from that first word. Nick knew Dunn once more had control of himself “—some could think you were a man scouting out trouble.”

  “I figure a small outfit’s always got trouble dealing with a big spread.”

  “Can’t see how.”

  “Take spring roundup. Be real easy for a number of a small outfit’s cattle to get into the bigger herd, get brands changed, accidental-like.”

  “That’s not the way things operate around these parts. Maybe where you come from, but not around here.”

  Nick returned barb for barb. “That’s not the way honest folks operate anywhere.”

  Dunn chose to ignore that. “Besides, the small outfit would have its reps right there. If they’re doing their job, good cowhands would stop it right quick.”

  “Honest ones,” Nick agreed. “Course, for those not quite so honest it can get kind of confusing exactly which brand they’re riding. Especially if they’ve got somebody behind them not quite so honest, either.”

  Dunn’s face darkened, and his hand tightened on the reins. But when his gaze went to something over Nick’s shoulder, his face settled into something closer to its usual satisfied lines.

  “Mrs. Terhune!” he called.

  Nick didn’t turn when she pulled Dandy to a stop by them.

  “Mr. Dunn.” Her easy smile turned watchful as her eyes came to Nick. “Any problem here?”

  “Your hand and I were just having a talk. I was letting him know we don’t have the trouble with thieving around these parts he seems to have been acquainted with in Texas.” His eyes flicked contemptuously over Nick. “Leastwise we haven’t up to the point of his arriving.”

  The hot surge of old anger swept through Nick, pushing at the limits of his control. Dunn was smoother, more sophisticated than other bullies he had known, but the character was the same.

  Rachel’s voice, calm and light, cut through his haze of anger. “Why, Mr. Dunn, are you having trouble with thievery at your place? I always thought the KD outfit was so well run and hired only the best.” She went on before Dunn could answer, adding a small, sad shake of her head. “It goes to show even a man in your position can make mistakes in judgment. Now, if you don’t mind, I need to talk to Nick about a matter.”

  Again, she gave Dunn no opportunity to answer, her eyes delivering to Nick a direct order to follow, before she turned Dandy smartly.

  Neither spoke until they’d reached a creek at the base of the hill where Shag and the others waited. She reined in Dandy, and Nick stopped beside her. It was a moment before she broke the silence.

  “Nick, I’m asking you to be polite, to work with Thomas Dunn’s people. Not to go up against Dunn himself.”

  “He was stealing from you.”

  “We don’t know that, not for sure.”

  He looked at her. “I know.”

  She let out an exasperated breath. “Nick, it doesn’t pay to trap a bear into a corner. Especially not when the bear’s four times bigger than you.” She gave a dry smile. “Shag’s been telling me that as long as I can remember, and I’ve got to agree with him on this. It makes more sense to let the bear know you don’t want him in your corral, then back off enough to let him leave on his own. Without it coming down to a fight. It’s a matter of politeness. And common sense.”

  His smile was bitter. “I am most certainly common. But look elsewhere for sense and politeness.”

  “Then I will look elsewhere for a roundup foreman,” she flared.

  He touched the brim of his hat and wheeled Marley away, galloping along the creek before she could catch a breath.

  Rachel was watching the rapidly departing figure, fighting an urge to go after them, when she became aware of Shag’s big roan scrabbling earth as he descended the hillside.

  “Where’s Nick off in such an all-fired hurry?”

  “I don’t know and I don’t care.”

  Shag’s brows rose. “That a fact?”

  Rachel ignored him. “You’ll have to foreman the roundup, Shag.”

  “All right.” He agreed so slowly she felt a stab of concern. She’d been worried when she first saw him, but he’d sworn he was just a shade worn-out. His color had gotten better these past days, but he moved gingerly, as if expecting pain. “I’ll do it, but not before I know what happened with Nick.”

  Slapping the end of Dandy’s reins lightly against her canvas-covered leg, she didn’t return his look.

  “He refused to follow my instructions about dealing with the KD outfit.”

  Shag considered that. “I can see where Nick wouldn’t take kindly to being friendly with those folks. He’s got a lot of pride. Stiff-necked pride. What I would—”

  The emotions churning inside her condensed as anger. “His stiff-necked pride could have gotten himself and maybe a lot of other people in a fight he couldn’t have won. You know the reputation
of some of those KD men. I couldn’t let that happen. I have a responsibility. To the Circle T and all its people.”

  “You do,” Shag conceded. “I’m not arguing how you’re handling this situation with Dunn. What I’m chewing on is that stiff-necked pride of Nick’s.”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “A man don’t usually carry a pride like that unless he needs it. Unless something’s been beating at him so long and so hard he can only stay standing if he’s got something hard and straight inside to hold him up. Something like stiff-necked pride. So what I’m wondering is why Nick needs that pride.”

  * * * *

  “Rachel!”

  She turned from the fire, holding the tin cup between her hands for the warmth it offered against the chill of drizzly predawn of the third day of roundup.

  “Morning, Shag.”

  Shag grabbed her elbow and tugged her sharply away from the fire and the others standing around it, gulping food under the dripping eaves of their hats.

  “Shag, what on earth . . .?”

  “He’s quit.”

  “Who’s quit?”

  “Nick.”

  Nick. Her lips formed the words, but no sound came.

  “Came up and said flat out, he was quitting right now. I upped his wage, and I thought he’d take my head off. I asked why, but all he’d say was the way things are, he didn’t feel he’s helping the Circle T. I told him he was loco. He wouldn’t listen. He shook my hand, and said he was leaving right now.”

  She felt as if she’d been thrown. That sensation of all the air being knocked out of her. That unyielding impact with the ground. That numbness that yet allowed the rational thought that the hurt would only get worse.

  “Which way did he go. Shag?”

  Shag’s expression brightened. “Said he’d stop by the Circle T, leave off our gear and pick up his belongings at the bunkhouse. He didn’t leave more’n a quarter hour ago. Even with him on Brujo, you ought to catch him before he leaves.”

  * * * *

  “What are you doing, Nick?” Rachel forced herself to step into the barn, where he had gear stacked by Brujo.

  He said nothing.

  Rain seeping through the roof blossomed familiar smells into an overpowering mustiness. Her throat felt tight, raw. “You’re really leaving.”

  “Yes.”

  “Where?”

  He waited for Brujo to quit shaking his head, then slid the bridle into place. “Texas.”

  “Texas! You can’t go back there. It’s dangerous. You’re wanted there, for heaven’s sake! They could . . .”

  His motions never slowed as he slid his saddle into place over the blanket on Brujo’s back.

  “Nick, why are you doing this? If this is about that business with Thomas Dunn—”

  “Time to move on. Do the things I set aside when I hired on here.”

  “Why?” she demanded. “Why now?”

  “I’m no help to you, Rachel.”

  She stared at him. “How can you say that? Look at everything you do around here and you know we’re shorthanded. Your leaving will make it worse. A lot worse.”

  “Guess I should say I can’t do you any good.” For the first time, his smooth, efficient movements faltered. Brujo shifted his weight uneasily. Nick readjusted the saddle before tightening both cinches. “Not the way things are.”

  And Rachel felt a trickle of hope. “What things? Maybe we can change—”

  “You’d have to marry me.”

  “Wh—what?”

  He nodded, without even turning from lashing his bedroll behind the saddle. “Marry me and I could help you with the Circle T, but I’m not as good a bargain as Wood’s offering you.”

  She felt as if he’d dealt her a stunning blow. Ignoring the dizzying impact, she reached to him. With both hands wrapped around his arm above the elbow, she dragged him around to face her.

  “How can you say such a thing, Nick, when I showed you how—when we . . .”

  Nick pulled his arm from her hold, but did not move away.

  “When we lay together. That’s what we did. That can happen between a man and a woman when all else between them is wrong.”

  “Wrong?” The word was like a slap. Everything between them was wrong?

  “You once told me not to give you grains of sands, when you wanted a mountain for an answer. Here’s the mountain. Remember when I told you and Shag that I’d killed a man?”

  They stood inches apart, facing each other, his words, calm and solid, piling up between them.

  “Of course I do.”

  “You asked why. Asked if it was over gambling or stealing or a lot of other things. Didn’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Yes. That’s how you asked it. Not if I’d caught a man cheating me, but if it was over gambling, like maybe I was the one cheating. Not—”

  “Nick, I—”

  He crushed her protest under the weight of his words. “Not if I caught somebody stealing, but if it was over stealing, like maybe I was the one stealing. That’s why I’m leaving, Rachel. I’m not the kind of man you’d know better than to think that of. I’m not the man to help you. I can’t do you any good.”

  He swung into his saddle, settling easily into the familiar seat.

  She should say something, do something. But what? And whatever she said, whatever she did, would it turn Nick Dusaq?

  “But your place, what about the land you bought?”

  He glanced down at her, and their eyes locked. He didn’t want to look at her, she could tell that from his face. Perhaps because his eyes revealed too much. In those dark eyes, she saw a darker loneliness, a pain.

  It was no consolation.

  “Goodbye, Rachel.”

  He nudged Brujo’s side with his spurs, and rode out into the rain.

  Chapter Twelve

  Chelico, Wyoming, October 1883

  “Whiskey.”

  “Sure thing.” Simon Hooper swiped at the bar more from habit than intention, splashed golden liquid into a glass with only a small chip on the rim and served it to the tall man with the loose-jointed grace of a cowhand.

  The man looked up as he lifted the glass, and Hooper snapped his fingers.

  “Hey, I remember you. You’re that Texan, name of Dusaq, ain’t you? Should have recognized you right off. Specially with that Texas brim. You worked at the Widow Terhune’s place back a year ago, didn’t you? I remember now, you came in the summer and left at spring roundup. Never knew a cowhand to follow such a schedule.” He chuckled. “That’s what you did, though, ain’t it?”

  “Yep.”

  “Knew it. Knew I’d seen that face. Well, how do you like that? Where you been all summer?”

  “Texas.”

  “Texas? Why, I bet you’ve got something to do with the herd of longhorns we heard is trailing this way.”

  “Yep.”

  “Pretty late to be bringing a herd up. If you’re thinking of grazing them for market, they don’t have no time to fatten up. So maybe you’re thinking of selling them to some buyer around here who’s looking to build his herd, huh?”

  Hopper waited expectantly, but not overlong, for an answer. This one wasn’t a talker. He remembered that, too.

  “Well, I suppose you’ll be going out to see the Circle T folks, then. Excepting old Shag, of course.”

  Dusaq looked up at that, and the bartender’s easy flow faltered.

  “Ah, you hadn’t heard about Shag’s passing, had you?”

  “No.”

  Hooper looked at the man with sympathy. This customer wasn’t much for talking, but those dark eyes of his had shown pain at the news. The bartender softened his tone. “Passed away. Last spring it was, after you’d left, I suppose. You know he’d been real sick over the winter?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, the way I hear it, he got better a spell, but not full better, if you know what I mean. Then he got terrible poorly all of a sudden, and didn’t
linger much after that.”

  The cowboy drew a fist around the glass and thumped it against the wooden bar.

  The bartender watched him warily. Grief, anger, joy—they all seemed to take a toll on the Texas Rose’s glassware.

  But no eruption came, and Hooper soon congratulated himself on having the rights of this one’s ways from the start. In a generous impulse to take Dusaq’s mind off that sorrow—and to share another bit of news he probably hadn’t heard—Hooper went on cheerfully.

  “Yes, sir, you can catch up with the Widow Terhune, and won’t need to ride so far, now that she’s at Natchez.”

  The man before him seemed to turn to rock. “Natchez?”

  “Sure. Well, of course, she ain’t the Widow Terhune no more neither, not since she married Gordon Wood last spring. Sure a mighty lot changed since you been round here. They’re fixing to have a young’un, too. Mighty soon, from what I been hearing, like maybe they jumped the gun on that wedding, you know what I mean? But there’s not any’ll turn their nose up at that one when it’s born, that’s for sure, not with having Natchez and the Terhune place all together on its plate. No, sir, that one’ll have all it wants. Why, I tell you—Hey, where you going? You didn’t finish your drink. Never knew one of you boys not to finish his drink. Don’t you want it?”

  “No.”

  * * * *

  “What is it? What is wrong?”

  His sister laid a hand on his arm as he mounted the wagon seat beside her.

  “You mind if we push on instead of staying at the hotel tonight the way we talked?”

  “I do not mind. I finished the shopping I needed, and I prefer sleeping in the wagon to staying in another hotel.” Alba gave a small smile, but he knew the stares that followed her limping progress in public places bothered her. “We will get there all the sooner this way. We can have everything prepared when the herd comes in.”

  He slapped the reins on the mules’ backs, and the wagon started forward, with the two horses tied on behind following. They’d gone nearly a mile out of Chelico before his sister spoke again. “What did you do in town, hermano?”

  “Had a drink.”

  “Ah.”