"Were you able to save anything at all?" Iris asked, wondering why Monty should treat this woman so differently from the way he treated her.
"Nothing," Betty said. "They went through the wagon and took everything they thought they might be able to use. Then they piled everything back inside and set it on fire. They even took the mules. I imagine they're eating them now."
Iris had never cared for mules. They were ugly and often uncooperative, but she didn't think even the most rebellious mule deserved to be eaten.
Then she remembered the terrible hunger of the Indian women and children. They would eat anything just to stay alive.
"Mrs. Crane wants to go to Dodge," Monty told Iris.
"Please, call me Betty. I'll look for work there," she told Iris. "After this, I have no desire to live outside a town."
"I don't blame you," Iris said. "If that had happened to me, I probably wouldn't stop running until I reached the Mississippi." She drew Betty Crane to a place by the fire. "You must be starved. You'll feel better as soon as you get some hot food inside you. Tyler is a marvelous cook."
"Thank you, but I can't sit down and do nothing."
"Yes, you can. After walking so far, your feet must be killing you."
"We don't have anything for you to sit on, ma'am," Monty said. "We sold all of Iris's chairs in Fort Worth, but the boys will find you a log. There's bound to be something along the creek we can use."
"I don't want to be a bother," Betty Crane said.
She had hardly gotten the words out of her mouth before half the men took off toward the creek. Almost immediately Iris could hear them rampaging through the brush, calling back and forth to compare their finds.
"It's not a bother, ma'am," Monty said. "We'll be happy to take care of you."
Monty fell silent. He obviously had something more to say, but he seemed reluctant to continue. Iris found that amazing. He'd never been the least reluctant to say anything to her.
"I don't mean to distress you, ma'am, but I need to know where you were when you were attacked. I want to bury your husband."
"I wouldn't dream of letting you do that," Betty said, fear leaping in her eyes. "They might still be around."
"Marauding Indians generally keep on the move. But just in case, we'll take a couple of our own Comanches. I don't think they'll bother us."
If Iris had been asked to characterize herself, she probably wouldn't have used the word selfless, even though she did believe she was generous, kind, and willing to put herself out for anyone in need. Under no circumstances would she have called herself a jealous woman. There had never been any reason. All her life she had been the center of attention.
But as Iris watched Monty fuss with the log the boys dragged up until he was satisfied it was comfortable, dry, and wasn't home to hordes of biting ants, as she listened to him painstakingly describe features of the surrounding countryside until he found one Betty remembered, she felt the demon of jealousy worming its way into her heart. It was so unexpected, so unfamiliar, she didn't even recognize it until one thought ran through her mind like a refrain.
Why didn't Monty treat her like this?
* * * * *
That evening Monty didn't disappear to check on the other herd. He didn't seem the least bit shy about eating his dinner next to Mrs. Crane or about being seen talking to her. He was at his most charming, and that was very charming indeed.
When Mrs. Crane got up to refill Monty's plate and bring him some fresh coffee, Iris bit her lip. It had never occurred to her to ask Monty if she could bring him a second helping or freshen his coffee. He had done that for her, several times, and she had accepted it as natural. Now she realized it wasn't. Helena had trained her servants to wait on her and Iris hand and foot. Without realizing it, Iris had grown up expecting everyone to do the same.
As Betty Crane moved from one man to another, refilling plates and coffee cups, thanking each of the men who searched for the log, assuring the rest she would do her best to see her presence didn't make their work any harder, Iris realized she was looking at a very different kind of woman, one whose relationship to men had nothing to do with money, beauty, or social standing.
Betty would never be considered beautiful. She might be considered nice looking when she got some sleep, had a bath, washed her hair, and put on a nice dress, but she was a rather plain woman. She probably wasn't much older than Iris, but her ordeal had left deep lines in her face that food and rest would only partially erase. There was nothing seductive about her. She was short, flat chested, straight of lines, yet she moved with a quiet grace. The soft gentleness in her voice was almost a caress.
I'm a southern woman, too. But Iris knew there was a difference between them, a difference the men had sensed immediately. No one had ever offered to find a log for her to sit on. Why?
These thoughts fled when Monty came over and dropped down next to Iris. Her heart beat faster. She told herself to act calm, even to act cool toward him. She wasn't going to let him know she had noticed his absence. She certainly didn't want him to know she had been thinking of him nearly every waking moment.
But she couldn't entirely control her reaction. The body that Monty dropped so casually at her feet was enough to make her temperature soar ten degrees. He simply had no idea how attractive he was. Just thinking of the power of his long legs made her body start to tingle. The arms and shoulders that could throw a full-grown steer to the ground could crush her without being aware of the effort.
But it was his attitude of absolute confidence in himself that had the greatest effect on Iris. If a woman had Monty at her beck and call, she'd have the world at her feet.
"You're going to have to lend Mrs. Crane some of your dresses," Monty said in a low voice. "The one she's wearing is about to fall off. It'll never last until we reach Dodge."
The first sentence he'd said to her in days that wasn't about cows, and it concerned another woman. The stab of disappointment hurt as much as a real pain. But Iris shoved her disappointment aside. Right now they had to help Betty. "She's nowhere near my size."
"I imagine she can cut a dress down to fit," Monty said. "She seems a very capable woman. I'll give her my blanket to sleep on, but I don't know what I can find for a pillow."
Iris bit back a retort. She felt a real sympathy for Betty Crane. She knew enough of being alone in the world, of having lost family, to know how she must feel. But she couldn't rid herself of this demon of jealousy. Monty had never worried about finding a pillow for her.
Monty got to his feet. "I hate to leave, but I've got to check on the other herd. You can take care of her for an hour or so, can't you? I'll be back to see if you've got everything settled."
He left. Just like that. After making love to her and then not speaking to her for nearly a week, he walked off into the night, his only concern for some dumb cows and a woman he'd never see before.
Tears stung Iris's eyes. She had never felt so miserable, so worthless, in all her life. Not only did Monty expect her to be kind to Betty and take care of her -- Iris, a woman who'd never even had to take care of herself -- he expected her to give Betty some of her clothes, let her cut them up.
But Iris knew it wasn't the clothes and it wasn't Betty. It was Monty. It was always Monty. He worried about Betty Crane's threadbare dress, but he didn't see that Iris's self esteem was in tatters. He was concerned about providing a warm, comfortable bed for Betty, but he didn't see that Iris was miserable. He meant to risk his life to bury her husband, but he couldn't see that Iris's love was dying of starvation.
As far as Iris could tell, he didn't see her at all.
Betty returned to her seat next to Iris. "I don't want to impose on you," she said, "but I was wondering if you could . . . "
"I don't have many dresses," Iris said, hoping she could use the smoke from the campfire as an excuse for the tears in her eyes, "but you're welcome to anything you think you can make fit."
"It isn't that," Betty said. "You'
ve provided me with food and protection. I don't need anything else. I was just wondering what I could do to help. I don't want to get in the way, but I feel I ought to do something. I can't ride, or I'd offer to help with the cows."
At least this was something Iris could do. "That won't be necessary," she said. "In fact, the men would prefer it. They'd like to keep me safe in camp, too, but I have to be doing something."
"I'm afraid I'm not very comfortable with this country," Betty admitted. "It's so terribly cruel. I only agreed to go to Texas because David wanted to. I agreed to go to Kansas for the same reason."
"What will you do now?" Iris asked.
"I don't know. I have no place to go."
Iris's heart went out to Betty. It was mean and petty to be jealous of this woman. She deserved every bit of kindness she and Monty could give her.
"You can stay with us as long as you like," Iris said, getting to her feet. Betty rose, too. "If you like, you can go to Wyoming with me. I'm starting a ranch there, and I've been dreading living alone."
"Surely you're not going to attempt to live through those winters by yourself."
"I meant female companionship. My brother will be my foreman. Men are very helpful, but they fall short when it comes to companionship."
"I know," Betty said. "David did his best to provide for me. Poor man, he really wasn't very good at it, but he never realized I wanted his companionship more than anything money could buy."
Neither does Monty, Iris thought. He doesn't realize anything at all.
"Now let's see about finding you somewhere to sleep."
* * * * *
Monty sat his horse on a rise. The panorama of the herd as it stretched over miles of virgin land untouched by any sign of human habitation thrilled his blood. Not even Texas could offer such an unbroken vista.
In two days they would leave Indian territory, and the threat of Indian attack. The dangerous part of the trip was behind them. The rest would be a monotonous trek across Kansas and Nebraska until they reached Wyoming. It was time to bring the two halves of the herd back together. Grass and water were plentiful, and it would be easier to handle.
But it wasn't long before Monty's thoughts turned to Iris. His avoidance of her had been successful as far as the men were concerned, but it had only intensified his feelings. Betty's arrival brought them into even sharper focus.
He felt a great sympathy for Betty's plight. She was a gracious woman in need, and it would never have occurred to him not to do everything in his power to help her, just as it wouldn't have occurred to him not to risk an encounter with Indians in order to bury her husband. He would have expected the same of anyone else for himself or his wife. That's the way he had been raised.
But the shocking revelation came when he compared Betty to Iris. He hadn't meant to, but it was inevitable. They were so different. Betty appeared to be everything a sensible man looked for in a wife. Calm, capable, a cheerful worker, attractive enough to make a man look forward to their nights together.
Iris was everything a sensible man avoided. She was temperamental, refused to take advice, had never learned to perform even the most basic domestic duties, and was so beautiful it was difficult for him to keep his wits about himself.
He had convinced himself that her total unsuitability for life in Wyoming made the thought that kept popping into his head entirely out of the realm of possibility. He might have a bad habit of acting first and thinking later, but he'd never been so lost to common sense as to consider marrying a woman so ill equipped to be a rancher's wife. Yet that was the thought that kept forcing its way out of the mental junk pile into which he repeatedly tossed it.
Monty had never wanted to be anything but a rancher. That's all he really knew. He'd go crazy in a city. Even a small town. He loved the freedom of the plains, the open spaces, pitting himself and his skills against the forces of Nature. He was a physical man who loved a physical life.
Iris was just the opposite. She rode with the herd and slept on the ground because he had practically forced her to. She was going to Wyoming because she didn't have any other choice. She knew precious little about cows and apparently even less about keeping a house. The man who married Iris would have to employ a full staff of servants.
The man who married her would also have to move to the city.
But seeing Betty Crane had brought home to Monty that all this didn't change his feelings. He was still crazy about Iris.
Did he love her?
He didn't know. He had never liked any woman enough to ask himself that question. He had spent years wanting to get away from George, but now he wished he could talk to him. George was crazy about Rose. Sometimes Monty thought he was too crazy about her, but somehow George never lost his grip. It seemed his love for Rose meshed perfectly with what he wanted to do with his life.
He wondered about Madison. Fern had been able to make the transition from living on a small ranch in Kansas to running a mansion in Chicago. Maybe Iris could, too.
But this was the reverse, from comfort to hardship.
Monty cursed and dug his heels into his horse's sides until he fell into a slow gallop. He had spent a week arguing with himself without finding any answers. He had made up his mind to stay away from Iris until they reached Dodge. There he would find her a drover, separate the herds, and let her move on without him. It would be an agony to let her go, but he'd been suffering agonies all week long. A final break couldn't be worse than this prolonged torture.
But Betty's arrival had forced him to confront his feelings for Iris, and their intensity surprised him.
Talking to her tonight, being next to her, had destroyed all his resolutions, overset all of his carefully thought-out decisions. It made no difference that Iris was a hazard and a liability. He was crazy about her.
He kicked his horse into a hard gallop. He had to reach the second camp quickly. If he thought about Iris any longer, he'd do something desperate.
* * * * *
Betty Crane had made doughnuts. The chuck wagon had stayed in the same place all day while the second herd was being brought up. Iris figured that was the only way Betty could have had time to do so much cooking. She didn't know how Betty managed it over a camp fire. She didn't know how Betty had talked Tyler into letting her use his equipment, but there they were, plates and plates of golden brown doughnuts. There probably wasn't a single food in all the world that cowboys liked half as much.
They nearly went crazy.
"You shouldn't have told us until later," Monty said, stuffing two doughnuts into his mouth. Iris would have sworn there wasn't enough room for one. "Everybody will ruin their dinner."
"I didn't make that many," Betty said, moving the plate out of Monty's reach. "I only made two for everybody."
"I'm the foreman of two crews. I deserve double rations," Monty said.
Betty laughed, then handed him the plate. "I bet you got into a lot of trouble when you were a kid."
"He still gets into a lot," Zac said, snatching an extra doughnut for himself. "He only gets away with it because he's so big and mean." He danced out of Monty's reach.
"He's very kind to let me travel with him," Betty said. "It can't be easy to worry about all those cows and a woman as well."
"It's not that much trouble," Monty said.
Iris's palms itched to slap that silly grin off his face. To think of the things he'd said to her! She hoped he choked on that blasted doughnut.
But there were more signs of Betty's industry to come. Somehow she had coaxed a cow to give milk. Then she rummaged around in the brush along the creek until she found a nest full of eggs. Having somehow managed to separate the butter from the milk, she had baked a cake. She had made a kind of preserve with fruit and raisins, which she spread between the layers. The men raved over it.
She had also found time to bathe, wash her hair, and cut one of Iris's dresses down to fit her. She looked rather pretty. All during dinner she refilled plates and handed the c
offee pot around. Iris had never felt so much like a useless barnacle. She felt like she had come face to face with another perfect-Rose type.
But she couldn't blame the men for fawning over Betty. She already knew half their names, had something to say to each one, and managed to smile and look like she wasn't doing anything special.
"I have to do something to pay them back for all the extra trouble I'm causing," she explained to Iris later. "I don't have any money, but I know how men like something sweet."
Betty's explanation just made Iris feel worse. She hadn't thought of thanking anybody for the trouble she caused them, especially Monty. She'd been far more trouble than Betty Crane ever thought of being.
It wouldn't have done any good if you had. What can you do except bat your eyelashes, wiggle your hips, and look pretty?
Iris had never felt so miserable. How could she have expected Monty or anyone else to fall in love with her? There was nothing about her to love. She'd always thought of herself in terms of money, position, and beauty. As long as she had them, people would love her. And they had. Until she lost the first two.
She had thought her looks would save her, but it was clear that even though Monty was powerfully attracted to her, her looks weren't going to cause him to fall in love with her. As for Hen. Well, she didn't even want to think about what Hen thought about her.
Then Betty Crane had shown up, plain, ordinary Betty Crane with nothing more than the clothes on her back, and everybody had started falling over themselves to please her.
Well Iris had learned a hard, bitter lesson, one she had begun to suspect some time ago. She didn't want to become the kind of woman her mother had wanted her to be. She didn't want to spend her life trying to dazzle men and keep them on a string, to wheedle and cajole and tease until they gave her jewels and clothes and everything else she desired. She didn't want people following at her heels because of her looks.
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