by Jill Gregory
“Need you ask?” Annie retorted. Her voice shook. “After everything that’s happened, you really need to ask why we hate you? Why the sight of you sickens us?”
Taken aback, Bryony could only stare at her in shock.
“My brother is dead,” Annie continued tremulously. “He’s lying in a grave not far from the grave of your father. He was only fifteen.” Hatred and grief shone from her eyes. “Yet you ask why we hate you? You ask what you’ve done?” Her voice rose.
“My brother is dead and we’re about to lose our ranch!” she wailed. “And my father has aged long before his time! But you... you have the gall to ask why we despise you? If you had the brains you were born with, you’d know the answer to that question without having to ask!” Hatred and grief shone from her eyes as she glared at Bryony from her seat in the wagon. She looked as if she’d like to run Bryony down and never look back to see the damage.
“I... I don’t understand...” Bryony’s voice shook. Her eyes, wide and dark, mirrored her confusion.
Annie Blake stared at her for a long moment. “You don’t know, do you?” she finally said, her voice filled with incredulity. “You really don’t know.”
Bryony began to speak, but at that moment, Buck Monroe’s hearty voice sounded at her elbow and she jumped.
“Howdy, Miss Hill. I’m all set to ride for home. Hope you haven’t been waitin’ too long. Afternoon, Annie.”
“Hello, Buck.”
Bryony immediately noted the change that came over Annie Blake in Buck’s presence. A flush entered her cheeks, and her work-roughened hands trembled as she gripped the reins. She couldn’t seem to draw her eyes away from the husky young wrangler’s handsome face.
Buck, though, had eyes only for Bryony. He was beaming down at her, barely sparing a glance for the ranch girl in the dilapidated wagon.
Why, she’s in love with him, Bryony realized instantly, recognizing the despair in Annie’s eyes. And Buck doesn’t even know she’s alive. All he does is stare at me. Sympathy stirred in her.
Annie, too, had noticed Buck’s absorption in his employer, and her lips quivered as she spoke in a low tone.
“Pa’s waitin’ on his supper—I’ve got to go. Buck?”
The wrangler tore his gaze from Bryony to grin at Annie good-naturedly. “Yeah, Annie, what’s on your mind?”
Whatever she’d been about to say, Annie abruptly changed her mind. She just shook her head, and without another word to either of them, she set her horses into motion. Bryony watched in dismay.
“Oh, Buck,” she sighed, and was on the verge of inquiring how he could be so blind when she realized that it wasn’t her place to betray Annie’s secret. Even if Buck knew, it wouldn’t make him return her affection.
“Something wrong?” he asked.
Bryony turned toward the horses. “Never mind. Let’s go. I’ve had enough of this town for one day.”
While they rode back, she remembered what Annie had been saying before Buck’s appearance. Though she didn’t feel free to discuss the girl’s feelings for him, Bryony could see no reason why she shouldn’t discover if Buck could shed some light on the other situation. She repeated the words Annie had told her, but Buck merely shook his head, frowning.
“Well, what does it mean?” she persisted, guiding Shadow back toward the valley. “I haven’t the faintest idea what she’s talking about.”
Buck hesitated, then answered her abruptly. “It’s not worth discussing. Annie shouldn’t have mentioned it. Dang it, don’t pay no attention to her; nobody else does. You just forget Annie Blake.”
“I can’t do that, Buck. I won’t. Please, if you have any idea what Annie means by all this, I wish you would tell me.”
Buck was staring straight ahead. Finally, his voice sober, he answered her. “Well, ma’am, it’s a fact of western life that cattle ranches are always plagued by rustlers. Big spreads and small ranches alike get their share of trouble, but in these parts there’s always been some hard feelings between the larges ranches and the small ones. Your pa and Matt Richards, along with the other big ranchers in the area were always expanding their herds and their lands, and some of the smaller ranchers, like Sam Blake, complained that they were being pushed out of the picture.”
He grimaced at her worried expression.
“Now, you’ve got to understand—that’s a common complaint in these parts, where men have a habit of taking what they want. But Sam and a few others accused your pa and Mr. Richards and some other big cattlemen of stealing from them to increase their own herds. Claimed they were trying to drive the smaller ranchers off the range.”
“Oh, Buck, that’s awful.” Bryony tensed in dismay, and the black mustang, sensing her disquiet, suddenly grew skittish, snorting and fighting for his head.
“Whoa, boy, take it easy,” Buck ordered as Bryony struggled to bring the horse under control. When she’d succeeded, he continued in a reassuring tone.
“Now, don’t go getting yourself all upset, Miss Hill. No one ever proved any of the accusations—especially where your pa and Mr. Richards were concerned. If you knew the West better, you’d know that there’s always talk like that goin’ on, and folks are used to it. Anyway, a feud sprang up here in Winchester between your pa and Mr. Richards on one side, and this group led by Sam Blake on the other. Then one night, Sam’s young son was killed while he was laying in ambush to catch some rustlers, and Sam—”
Buck broke off, hesitating, then went on staunchly. “Sam always insisted it was your pa’s and Richards’ men who killed the boy. But no one ever believed it—both those men were too well-known and respectable to be guilty of such dirty business, and most folks figured the killing and thieving going on were done by renegade Apache.”
He shrugged and glanced solemnly at Bryony, who looked horrified.
“No need for you to worry none about it, ma’am. These feuds happen all the time, and they’re usually triggered by some stupid misunderstanding. I’m shore there’s no basis for any of the things Sam or Annie Blake says, or else I wouldn’t have stayed on working for your pa, and neither would Shorty, or a lot of other cowpokes I know. So just forget what Annie told you. Put it right out of your thoughts.”
This was something Bryony couldn’t do.
A terrible, terrible misunderstanding. Buck had to be right about that. Her father couldn’t possibly have been involved in anything unscrupulous. The idea was ridiculous.
Still, a heaviness of heart settled over her as she thought of Annie Blake’s young brother, dead at so early an age. It was a tragedy. But neither she, nor her father, could be held in any way responsible for it, and she intended to make that clear to Annie the very next time they met.
Chapter Fourteen
The days slipped by. May arrived, and the giant saguaro cactus, so prominent in the region, gave forth its beautiful white blossoms, filled with the long, purplish fruit that the Indians had long used for food. The flat, sandy desert grew more exquisite daily, adorned with its yucca trees, greasewood, jumping cholla cacti, flowering organ-pipe cacti, and barrel cacti, from whose trunk, Bryony learned, candy was made.
In the valley, the grass-covered rangeland was dotted with pink-blooming ironwoods. Geraniums, violets, snowberry, and fernbush carpeted the mountains and their foothills, and dazzling, sun-golden poppies spanned the mesas.
Each day Bryony was greeted by a brilliant, sapphire-domed sky and hot sunshine, and the air was always scented with pine, mingled with the citric aroma from her own orange groves.
As ever, the mountains loomed deep blue and purple in the distance, a pinkish haze tinging their stark, jagged edges.
Bryony reveled in the magnificence of her surroundings. Her days were full as she occupied herself with the running of a large and prosperous cattle ranch, aided in her efforts by Judge Hamilton, who showed her how to manage the books and payroll, and by Shorty Buchanan, who kept the wranglers in line and handled all matters of daily management, reporting to Bryon
y several times each week.
She frequently visited her father’s grave in the cemetery outside of Winchester. Though she managed to find time for horseback riding occasionally, most of her hours were spent helping Rosita with the cooking and housework, writing up supply lists, and balancing the books. One thing she never missed, however, was her daily shooting lesson. Her derringer had been chipped by Jim Logan’s bullet, but it was otherwise in good working order, and Bryony saw to it that she and Shorty Buchanan rode out into the foothills for a practice session every afternoon.
She had grown quite fond of the feisty little cowpoke, though she soon learned that he was anything but a patient teacher. His grizzled face often screwed itself into an expression of exasperation when she didn’t follow his instructions exactly, but he knew more about shooting a gun than most men knew about breathing, and under his tutelage, she became surprisingly proficient with the weapon. Her aim was good, her hand steady, and her reactions were quicksilver. Though he never admitted it in words, Shorty seemed proud of her.
Matthew Richards called frequently at the Circle H, and his attentions to Bryony had become quite marked. At first she thought he was merely being kind to her because of his friendship with her father, but eventually she came to realize that_he was attracted to her, and she couldn’t help but feel flattered and pleased.
With his dark-haired good looks, his vast cattle holdings and impressive Twin Bars ranch, he was considered to be the matrimonial catch of the valley. He was a man respected by everyone in Winchester, and here he was, dangling after a girl fresh out of boarding school.
It was a compliment indeed. Bryony did enjoy his company, and she was always pleased when he rode up in the cool of the evening to share a glass of lemonade or elderberry wine with her on the porch. He often brought gifts, such as a wild turkey he had personally shot for her Sunday dinner, or the fine-looking white Stetson he had ordered especially for her in Tucson.
There was something so comforting about his solid, friendly presence that she found herself looking forward eagerly to his visits.
One Saturday morning in mid-May, Bryony stood before her bedroom mirror, carefully twisting her hair into two long dark braids, which she subsequently wound about her head in a soft, pretty chignon. She was dressed in a ruffled white blouse and a long, brightly flowered skirt, with thin sandals on her feet. She turned this way and that before the mirror, studying her appearance.
Today she and Matt were going on a picnic near the banks of the San Pedro, and she wanted to look especially nice for him. She’d been looking forward to this outing all week, and now that it was finally here, her heart fairly sang with pleasure. She loved being outdoors in the fresh, clean mountain air, drinking in the spectacular western scenery. Especially in the company of a man she was so fond of, and who always took every care for her enjoyment.
She smiled into the mirror, then dabbed on some of the French cologne she saved for special occasions. Next she set a crisp white sunbonnet over her dark, braided chignon, tying the silken ribbons jauntily under her chin. She was ready. It was ten o’clock exactly, and even as she turned away from her mirror, she heard the crunch of carriage wheels on the pebbles below. Matt had arrived.
Running lightly down the stairs, Bryony encountered Rosita in the parlor. She was vigorously polishing the handsome brass lamps with beeswax.
“Rosita, how do I look?” she asked gaily, pirouetting to show off her Mexican style blouse and skirt.
Rosita’s eyes shone with approval. “Muy bonito, Senorita,” she assured her mistress with a smile. “Very, very pretty!”
“Gracias,” Bryony returned dimpling. She’d been making an effort to learn Spanish, but her progress had been necessarily slow since her time now was so fully occupied with her duties. She often reflected ruefully on how much time she’d spent in school mastering French, and now that she was fluent in that language, she had absolutely no need for it. She was determined that before the summer was out, she’d be able to converse respectably in the Spanish language, for there was no doubt that the Spanish and Mexican cultures had a profound influence on nearly every aspect of life in Arizona, including the local architecture, the mode of dress, and diet. She found it fascinating and wanted to assimilate herself into the southwestern culture as much as possible.
A purposeful knock on the ranch house door sent Bryony hurrying to open it. Matt was waiting on the porch, looking tall and extremely handsome in a plaid shirt and pressed trousers, with a green bandana knotted at his neck, and handsome leather boots glistening upon his feet. His deep-set eyes lit up when he saw her, and the smile she’d grown so fond of curved his mouth.
“You’re a sight for sore eyes, Bryony.” He grasped her hands in his. “I reckon I can’t tell you how much I’ve been looking forward to this day.”
“So have I.” She smiled warmly up into his eyes. For a moment it seemed that he was going to kiss her, but just as he leaned forward, Bryony suddenly broke away with a laugh. “Good heavens, I’m so excited, I almost forgot the picnic basket! Please come in while I get it.”
She drew him into the hallway and then disappeared like a whirlwind in the direction of the kitchen.
Matt strode to the doorway of the parlor, nodding at the housekeeper, who had straightened from her work and was regarding him with a darkened expression.
“Buenas dias, Rosita.”
“Buenas dias, Senor,” she returned in the surly voice she frequently used.
In the days following Bryony’s injury, her attitude toward the young woman she worked for had altered considerably and they’d been getting along quite well. Rosita had warmed to Bryony as she began to know her. But with the appearance of Matt Richards in the doorway, the housekeeper’s previous aloofness returned, a fact Bryony noticed immediately upon returning to the hallway, a wicker picnic basket in her arms.
“Ready?” With a smile, Matt took the heavy basket from her. ‘I sure don’t want to waste a minute of this fine morning.”
“Neither do I! Rosita, Senor Richards and I will be picnicking near the banks of the San Pedro, just south of Cougars’ Bluff. If Shorty or one of the men need me, they can find me there.”
The housekeeper nodded brusquely. Her thick dark brows were drawn together in a frown. For a moment Bryony stared at her, half-amused, half-exasperated.
For some reason she couldn’t fathom, Rosita strongly disliked Matt Richards. She was one of the only people in the valley who did.
Bryony couldn’t understand why, but she shrugged off Rosita’s attitude as she and Matt walked together to the carriage. A short time later she was seated beside him in the handsomely painted vehicle, drawn by a pretty, spirited white mare that trotted down the valley trail, weaving its way toward the banks of the river.
It was a scenic drive, affording Bryony an opportunity to view the flowering white saguaro blossoming everywhere. She watched and listened in delight as the cactus wrens and egrets flitted through the clear, cloudless azure sky, turning her head now and then to view the dark, rolling foothills to her right, and Cougars’ Bluff ahead to the left—eager to catch a glimpse of the San Pedro, their destination.
They camped on a lovely spot—a wide stretch of grassy land near the water, where they could watch the river wind its way peacefully downhill, gurgling past the jutting rocks and thick mesquite shrubs overhanging the shore. Just now, the river was a thin, pretty ribbon, since the season was hot and dry, but she’d heard that during the rainy season, or when a sudden summer thunderstorm hit the region, the banks could swell with a mammoth flood of water, washing away everything in its path.
Today, though, all was peace and tranquility. Bryony spotted a yellow-necked mud turtle crawling ponderously along the muddy edge of the river bank, while on the opposite shore a herd of elk calmly drank from the flowing water.
Matt spread a large blanket upon the grass, and as Bryony knelt upon it she was momentarily reminded of another blanket she had rested upon, one cool spr
ing night under the desert stars.
Biting her lip, she checked herself, and quickly began unpacking the picnic basket, trying to chase the unwanted memories of Texas Jim Logan from her mind.
In the past weeks, her thoughts had turned to him all too often, and she’d grown increasingly angry with herself for her inability to forget him. Every time her thoughts drifted to the memory of his muscular form and strong arms locked gently around her, of the heat of his lips on hers—so warm and demanding, and oddly tender—her heart gave a painful lurch in her breast. It was as if she missed him. As if she wanted him to hold her again, kiss her again...and again.
She hated herself for wanting that. For wanting his touch, his kisses. It was wicked to react so to her father’s murderer—a lawless man who was despicable in every way.
She hated herself for her weakness. And today of all days was not the time to be thinking of a man who deserved only her loathing—for now she was in the company of a gentleman, a kind, decent man who treated women with respect and consideration.
But she felt no painful jolts of the heart when Matt looked at her, and her blood didn’t pound furiously in her temples at his slightest touch. He was a pleasant, enjoyable friend, and she knew she ought to appreciate the comfortable serenity she found in his company, instead of letting her mind wander to that mocking, dangerous gunfighter with his heart of stone. But somehow, she couldn’t forget the way Texas Jim Logan made her feel. Or the way his hard blue gaze pierced her, as if he could somehow read the longings of her soul.
She pushed all thoughts of him from her mind as she and Matt munched on a lunch of chicken enchiladas and corn tortillas, followed by fresh oranges and delicious sopaipillas—fritters rolled in sugar and ground cinnamon.
Bryony had prepared everything herself. She was proud of her culinary accomplishments. The more accustomed she became to Mexican cooking, the more she enjoyed it. A warm glow of pleasure spread through her when Matt complimented her upon the meal.
