by Karen Ranney
He must’ve gone a mile, maybe a mile and a half before he saw the herd. Connor stopped the stallion, his gloved hands on his thighs, staring. He would have to write his mother and sisters about this. Elsbeth hadn’t told him everything.
Highland cattle were the funniest looking things he’d ever seen.
They had broad triangular faces, short legs, and stocky bodies. Their bodies, including the tails hanging to the ground, were covered in long tan or brown hair. The hair dripped down over their eyes and almost to the end of their snouts. Their horns stuck out straight from either side of their heads, above their hairy ears. Although not as impressive as a Longhorn’s, the horns ended in a wicked-looking point.
He hadn’t considered that they would be so hairy, but of course they would need to be to winter outside.
There was Elsbeth in the middle of them, her horse tied to a tree branch as she traipsed through the snow.
He didn’t fool himself that he was out exploring Bealadair. He’d come looking for her and now he’d found her, hatless, her bright red cloak a spot of color next to the cattle.
He sat where he was, feeling oddly content, and watched her.
Chapter 16
A few minutes later, Connor dismounted and tied his reins to a tree branch not far from a pretty little roan mare that regarded him with intelligent eyes. After a moment of inspection, she nodded just once, as if finding him acceptable before turning her attention to his horse.
He grinned at the stallion’s toss of his hair and thought that whoever had named him Samson had chosen well.
Instead of the simple pasture he’d expected, the area had been augmented by a long wooden structure. About five feet high, it stretched from the base of a modest hill down to a creek bed. It took him a moment to realize that it was a windbreak serving a dual purpose: it cut off the worst of the Highland winds, plus it was a bedding-down area where the cattle slept. Grass was mounded and contoured to provide cushioning on the cold ground and probably to aid in drainage.
Two troughs about six feet long sat perpendicular to the windbreak. He guessed one held water and the other food.
He leaned back against an oak that looked as if it had been there a couple hundred years and watched Elsbeth. She was walking among the herd, and it looked as if she was talking to the cattle. Occasionally, she would slap her gloved hand against a flank, stop, and look appraisingly at the animal’s condition. From time to time, she would push one of them out of her way, and sometimes the cow would butt her back.
Her laugh traveled over the space between them, the sound of it making him smile.
She surprised him by looking comfortable, even in the middle of the herd. Highland cattle were, no doubt, more docile than Longhorns, but he bet they could still be dangerous, especially with those horns. She was agile in avoiding those, however, and twice used a horn as a kind of handle to move one of the cows.
She turned her head, caught sight of him, and hesitated for a moment before raising her hand in a wave. He waved back, but she didn’t move to join him. Instead, she continued with her inspection.
How had she learned about Highland cattle? Was it something his uncle had taught her? Or had she simply decided one day that someone had to do the job and learned what she needed to know?
He wouldn’t put it past her. He’d known her for one and a half days exactly, yet he already had an idea of her character. He both respected and liked her, the thought catching him off guard. He also wanted to know more about her.
Perhaps he’d felt that way about another woman in his past, but it was so long ago that he couldn’t remember.
When she finally started to head in his direction she did so with her head down, her eyes on the snowy ground.
“Where did you learn about cattle?” he asked when she was close enough to hear him.
She raised her head and met his gaze.
“Some from our previous steward,” she said. “Some from our ghillie, although he would much rather not work with cattle. Some from Gavin. And some from wonderful books on the subject.”
“Don’t you have anyone to help you?” he asked.
“Of course,” she said. “But they don’t deliver the feed and the water until I give them the order.”
“Water?”
She smiled. “You’ll laugh. You’ll think our cattle are coddled too much.”
When he didn’t say anything, she continued. “We heat the water on the coldest days. They can eat snow, but it lowers their body temperature and they can get too chilled. It’s easier to keep their weight on than to replenish it.”
“And that’s why you come here every day?” he asked, his amazement growing.
“Not every day,” she said. “Only on the coldest ones. I need to make sure the cattle are healthy, that none of them is lame, that their hair hasn’t become wet or matted. It doesn’t protect them, you see, if it does.
“They’ll eat almost anything. It’s why we have to keep the branches around the lower pastures trimmed. Otherwise, they’d eat all the leaves. They’ll eat weeds and vines and anything that remotely looks like food.”
She was warming to the topic, and he wasn’t about to stop her, fascinated by her smile and the light in her eyes.
“In winter we feed them hay,” she said. “This year we were lucky. We had only an A herd.”
“An A herd?”
She nodded. “I grade the herd in autumn. If a cow is too thin, it’s a B. If it’s too fat, it’s a C. They get separated into different sections depending on their condition. That way the thin ones are fed more and the fat ones less.”
“So an A cow is one that’s just right?” he asked.
She nodded.
“And you do this grading yourself?”
“With the help of our steward,” she said. “He doesn’t like the task much,” she added, smiling. She glanced over her shoulder. “I think he’s afraid of them.”
“It’s a good-sized herd,” he said, having estimated the number to be about one hundred fifty. Nothing like the thousands of head of Longhorn on the XIV Ranch, but acceptable for a small pasture.
“This is just one of them,” she said. “There are six more pastures.”
“And you oversee all of them?” he asked, amazed.
She shook her head. “Not all of them. Some are too far to easily reach. We have crofters who look after the cows and ensure they’re well fed.”
She came and stood beside him, looking out over the pasture.
“They’re normally very healthy, even in the winter. And they calve small babies so they rarely need any help.”
One of the cows raised its head and stared at her. At least he thought it stared. It was difficult to tell with all that hair.
“The whole herd seems to protect them,” she said. “They seem to shield the little ones, forming a barrier between the calves and the outside world.”
“You didn’t tell me they were so hairy,” he said.
“Oh, that’s one of their best traits. Of course, in the summer their hair isn’t as long, but it still protects them from flies. Summers are harder for them than our wet, cold winters. In summer we move them to the western pasture. It’s shadier in the afternoon, and they stay cooler.”
A tendril had come loose from her bun. He wanted to push it back into place, but he kept his hands in his pockets.
“I’ve been listing all the cattle in a book,” she said. “A registry, of sorts, for Bealadair’s herds.” She glanced up at him. “Did you know that they were written about as early as the thirteenth century? The crofters used to bring them into their homes to sleep in the winter.”
“I guess that kept them from being rustled,” he said.
“And they kept the owner warm,” she added. “They’re good milk cows and good oxen. They’re a very hardy breed.”
She looked around her. “This afternoon, we’ll send some men here and to the upper pasture to plow some of the snow.” She glanced at him. “I hope that wh
en you sell Bealadair you find someone who’ll treat them well, Connor.”
“Perhaps you should stay on at Bealadair,” he said. “I doubt anyone would be as conscientious as you.”
She turned and stared out at the pasture and beyond, to the windbreak. “No, it’s time for me to leave.”
The words irritated him for some reason. If all went well, Bealadair would sell quickly. Perhaps the servants would remain, but that was all. His aunt and cousins would have to find other living arrangements.
He was land rich but cash poor. He needed an infusion of money to ensure that the ranch lived on, just as his father had intended.
Still, it annoyed him to think of Elsbeth leaving.
“Your Highland cattle sound a lot like a Longhorn,” he said, deciding that cattle were a safer subject. “They can live on the open range and eat things most other animals ignore.”
“They’re actually your Highland cattle,” she said with a gentle smile. “Perhaps you could take a few back to Texas with you.”
That was an idea. He tucked it away to think about later.
“The duchess knows that you’re going to sell Bealadair,” she said, glancing up at him.
“Did you tell her?” he asked, surprised.
She’d spared him a difficult meeting, but he didn’t like the idea of hiding behind a woman’s skirts.
She shook her head. “I’m afraid that was Mr. Glassey’s doing.”
“I should have known he’d do that. He has more loyalty to the duchess than to me.” He shrugged. “It’s to be expected, I guess.”
She glanced at him, then away. He wanted to ask her what she was thinking. Normally, he just waited until a person spoke, but with Elsbeth he was impatient.
“You really don’t want to be duke, do you?”
“I don’t. Seems like a lot of foolishness. I can’t help the family I was born into. Maybe my great-great-great-great-grandfather did something that attracted the attention of some royal person. Maybe he got an award for it. Why should I be singled out as being special because of that?”
“You have to admit that the rest of the world doesn’t feel that way,” she said. “Most people would very much like to be a duke. They’d like all that respect.”
“But it isn’t, you see. It’s not real respect. A man earns real respect because of what he does.” He pulled his gloved hands out of his pockets and looked down at them. “What he makes with his hands. What he imagines with his mind.” He glanced at her. “Maybe even how he treats other people, especially those who can’t do anything for him. That’s real respect. That other stuff? That bowing and calling me Your Grace? That’s just either habit or something you’re taught to do. It doesn’t mean anything. It’s just a waste of time and speech.”
She studied him for what felt like a long time, not saying anything. He wanted to ask her if she thought he’d just spouted a bunch of nonsense. He was at that point when she nodded.
“You’re a unique man, Connor McCraight. I think your uncle would have liked you very much.”
He wasn’t sure how he felt about that comment. He didn’t know his uncle from Adam’s off ox, but Gavin was Graham’s twin so he owed the man some respect.
“Are you going to go through with that idiotic contest with Felix?”
She kept unsettling him with her questions or comments.
“It seems to me the man wants to show me what a great shot he is. Who am I not to allow him that opportunity?”
“You could just walk away. Tell him you have better things to do.”
He didn’t bother hiding his smile. “That wouldn’t accomplish anything. Men like Felix don’t stop badgering. They get something stuck in their craw and they won’t let it loose until you do what they want.”
She shook her head. “He won’t let you forget it,” she said. “When he wins.”
“He might win,” he agreed. “Then, again, he might not.”
“Are you a very good shot, Connor?”
“I didn’t bring my rifle,” he said, “but I’m passable. I do have my revolver from the war, though.”
Her face changed a little. It wasn’t all that noticeable, and if he hadn’t been watching her closely he probably would have missed it. There was a look in her eyes that resembled the expression his mother wore sometimes, a sadness that couldn’t be talked away.
He wanted to tell her that he didn’t need her to be sad on account of him, but something stopped him. Maybe he liked it a little, a woman as beautiful as Elsbeth Carew feeling something for him. Or maybe he was just feeling a little sad for himself, and it eased him to share it with someone else, someone he liked.
“What else do you have to do today?” she asked. “Would you like to see the old castle?”
“I’m going to have to, sooner or later, aren’t I? It’s part of being a duke, right?”
She nodded.
“Well, hell, we might as well see it, then.”
“You’re supposed to beg my pardon when you swear in my company,” she said.
“Who came up with that stupid rule?”
“It’s just being proper.”
He bent down until he was just a few inches away from her face.
“Are you always so proper, Elsbeth Carew?”
She looked up at him, her gray eyes making him want to just watch her for an hour or two.
He discovered he liked teasing her. He didn’t move away, but deliberately got closer. It would be so easy to kiss her right now. That wouldn’t be at all proper, would it?
He stepped back, thinking that he should apologize. But he’d only thought it. He hadn’t actually kissed her. Should he apologize for thinking it?
“Can we warm up somewhere first?” he asked. “Before we go and see this castle?”
Her smile was enough to heat him from the inside out. And damn near made him kiss her.
Chapter 17
At the side of her mare, Connor cupped his hands and bent slightly. She hesitated for a moment, then placed her left boot in his palms, thanking him as he helped her mount. Below the red cloak she wasn’t wearing a riding habit, but something that reminded him of the garment his sisters wore when they rode astride. The skirt was divided, making it look like extra-wide pantaloons. She didn’t, he was happy to see, use a sidesaddle. In this weather and on the snowy roads, it couldn’t be safe. Instead, her saddle was what he’d come to think of as the English style.
He wondered how she would’ve mounted without his assistance. He didn’t doubt that Elsbeth would’ve found a way. Perhaps she was expert enough to simply put her foot in the stirrup and bound over the mare’s back.
She was one of the most interesting women he’d ever met. Even more important, he wanted to know more about her, and that curiosity was a surprising twist for him.
He’d been around women all his life. He was accustomed to their conversations, to his sister Alison’s somewhat hysterical rantings, to Constance’s hyperbole. He liked the way Dorothy’s mind worked and had asked her a few questions about the way women thought.
“We don’t think all that differently from men,” she’d said.
He’d disagreed. “You think about things I would never consider.”
“Like what?”
“Whether something looks good with something else. If something is comfortable. Habitable. You’re wallpaper and furniture. Men are mostly brick and mortar.”
Dorothy had only looked at him, but she hadn’t countered his argument.
If she were here, what would she say about Elsbeth? What would her opinion be of this fascinating Scottish woman?
Instead of leading him back toward Bealadair, Elsbeth continued on the road, traveling upward and around the side of the hill to a tidy little cottage tucked between an outcropping of shale and the beginning of a valley. A glen, that’s what the Scots called it.
When she stopped, she swung her leg over the mare’s back, was off her horse and tying the reins to a post beside the cottage steps
before he could offer to help her.
He dismounted as well, mimicking her actions in tying the reins, grinning as Samson edged closer to the mare. She ignored him, which only made his horse more determined to capture her attention.
He was probably acting a little like the stallion.
As Elsbeth knocked on the door, she glanced at him and said, “Mr. Stuyvesant lives here. He’s from Germany, but he’s been living in Scotland for so long that he has the most curious accent.”
She didn’t get a chance to say more before the door opened.
Mr. Stuyvesant was a gnome of a man, at least a foot shorter than Elsbeth, bent over from age, and fiercely gripping a cane that looked as if it had been carved from a tree root.
His hair was white, as were his eyebrows. The blue eyes beneath them were alight with humor. His mouth, surprisingly prim, broke into a smile that immediately removed twenty years from his weathered face.
“Elsbeth, my little one!” he said, opening the door wide and stepping back. “I didn’t think to see you until next week. Come, come inside.”
“We came to warm up, Hans,” she said, smiling. She stepped inside, but not before reaching back and gripping Connor’s sleeve and pulling him with her.
“This is the Duke of Lothian, Hans. His Grace feels the same about Scottish winters as you do.”
She made the introductions so quickly that he didn’t have an opportunity to protest the His Grace part of it. Stuyvesant did a quick nod of his head, which was, thankfully, the only acknowledgment of his new rank. The man proceeded to ignore him, his attention on Elsbeth. He pointed to a chair with his strange knotted cane.
“Sit, sit. I’ll get you some tea, shall I?”
The inside of the cottage was surprisingly cozy. Connor had expected something like one of their line shacks at home, a sparsely furnished building consisting of a chair or two, a table, one or two cots, and maybe a few bowls and pots.
