Dusty Britches

by McClure, Marcia Lynn

  Immediately Makenna’s lower lip pursed and began to quiver as big tears filled her eyes.

  “Now, there you go, Dusty. Gettin’ her all upset,” Ryder grumbled from behind her—though he made no move to interfere.

  “Daddy was…bringin’ in the cattles. Some men came. There was shootin’, and them cattles started runnin’, and Daddy falled off his horse, and they runned over him, and he got hurted, and the bad men left,” Makenna told them through her sobs.

  Dusty turned to look up at Ryder and was even further frightened when she saw how pale his face was—how utterly horrified his expression. “Where’d them cows kick him, Kenna honey?” Ryder asked.

  Makenna shook her head, crying again, and Jakie followed suit. Dusty gathered them both in her arms as she crouched before the rocking chair. “Rustlers,” she whispered to Ryder.

  He nodded in agreement. “I’m more worried about where that boy got kicked,” Ryder mumbled.

  “Let’s get these babies settled down, Ryder,” Dusty said. She watched as he bent down, picking up Makenna and heading toward the back of the house. “Then maybe you oughta get over to Alex’s and see—”

  “No,” he stated. “It ain’t safe to leave you here alone.”

  He was right. Dusty knew her daddy’s ranch was the closest to the Joneses’. If there were rustlers in the county, they might come there next. Still, she could see that Ryder was itching to leave, unsettled and uncharacteristically nervous.

  “You all right, Kenna honey?” he asked as he pushed Dusty’s bedroom door open and carried her inside.

  Makenna nodded. “Mama said them men was after the cattles.” Ryder nodded, seemingly unconvinced, and something in Dusty was frightened. His expression was oddly worried—too intensely worried for Ryder Maddox.

  “Let’s lay you and little Jake down here. This is my bed, Kenna,” Dusty said in a soothing, maternal voice. “Don’t ya think it’s soft?”

  Makenna sniffled and nodded.

  Ryder glanced nervously at the bedroom window. Dusty tried to keep the panic welling in her bosom from escaping its tight restraints. Jakie would not let go of Dusty, and she finally had to lie next to him to calm him down.

  “Do ya want me to tell ya a story, Kenna?” she asked. Ryder stood looking around the room as if he didn’t know what to do next.

  Then Makenna begged, “I want Ryder Magics to sing me a song.” Ryder started to shake his head, but when his eyes met Dusty’s concerned ones and then the pleading blue pools belonging to Makenna, a slight smile and a heavy sigh escaped his lips, and he nodded.

  “Sit here with me,” Makenna told him, motioning to the bed next to her. Instead, he knelt down beside the bed, took one of her small hands in his own, and brushed a lock of hair from her forehead.

  “What do you want me to sing to ya, honey?” he asked. Dusty could only watch him—mesmerized at the little girl’s power over the man.

  “The one about pretendin’, Mr. Magics,” came her answer.

  He chuckled. “Why is it little girls like that song so much?” he asked the child. He was looking at Dusty, however.

  Dusty couldn’t help but smile. She remembered too being so sick with the fever when she was eleven and Ryder coming in through her window one night. He’d sung the same song to her—kneeling by her bed just as he did now and holding her hand while he smoothed the fever from her brow with his callused fingers.

  “’Cause it’s pretty,” Makenna answered. “It makes me dream.”

  Ryder bent, kissing her tenderly on the forehead, and began:

  Are you pretendin’ tonight, little darlin’,

  Pretendin’ I’m your Prince Charmin’,

  Though I’m nothin’ but a cowboy…a-ridin’ for the brand?

  Are you pretendin’ I’m a gentleman…a-askin’ for your hand?

  Well, I’ll kiss you tonight, little darlin’.

  And I’ll hold you real tight, in my arms.

  And if you’re thinkin’ that my kisses…aren’t really who I am,

  I’m not pretendin’, little girl,

  A dream unendin’, little girl,

  No more pretendin’, little girl…

  I’m your man.

  “Again,” the girl demanded sleepily when he’d finished.

  Ryder looked to Dusty and smiled. Jakie was already asleep, middle slobber-drenched fingers relaxed at his side.

  “All right then,” he agreed. “But do ya promise to go to sleep when I’m done?”

  Makenna nodded and smiled. Her little heart-shaped mouth placed a kiss in her chubby little hand and held it out to Ryder. He smiled and kissed her palm before starting his song again.

  This time, by the time Ryder finished the final chorus, Makenna slept soundly. He stood and stretched as Dusty maneuvered her way off the bed.

  Shutting the door behind them as they left the sleeping children, Dusty asked, “Now what?”

  “Hurry up and wait, I guess,” he answered.

  “What’s goin’ on here, Ryder?” Dusty asked. He still seemed unusually unsettled.

  “Couldn’t tell ya,” he answered. “I can say it’s a whole heck of a lot harder sittin’ here with the women and children than it is a-goin’ along to help.”

  “Now ya know how the women and children always feel,” Dusty teased. He nodded. “Come into the kitchen,” Dusty said. “You can help me get some supper on in case anyone ever comes home.”

  Dusty was beginning to feel as if she were caught up in some dream come true, even for all the drama and worrying about Alex, Alice, and the sleeping children. She and Ryder alone on the ranch, children asleep in the other room, and supper needing doing—it was like a dream. The sun was setting fast. She knew when it was dark they’d both feel all the more agitated. It was best to keep a fretting, impatient man busy.

  Still, Ryder wasn’t much help. He kept glancing out the windows and pacing the floor anxiously. He was more company than anything else—and that was best anyway. They talked about nothing substantial, just biding their time. The sun set, the children slept, and no one came home. It was nearly eight o’clock and still nothing.

  “You sleep in there with them babies tonight,” Ryder said. Standing, he took his hat from the rack behind the door.

  “Where are you goin’?” Dusty asked, fairly leaping to her feet.

  “Well, sweet thing,” he began, “as much as I would like to stay in here and sleep with you too…I’m not sure how your daddy would feel—”

  His words and her smile were stifled instantly by the sudden bawling of calves and the sounds of restless horses out in the corral.

  “Shhh!” Ryder told her. “Blow out the lamp!”

  Dusty didn’t pause—simply blew down the chimney of the lamp sitting in the middle of the table. She peered through the darkness as Ryder went to the door. Taking down the rifle her father kept above it, he cocked it in readiness.

  “You get down on the floor,” he whispered.

  Dusty was terrified. “Ryder?” she whispered. He put an index finger to his lips. Carefully, he peered out the window and into the night.

  “Somethin’s spookin’ the horses in the corral,” he said. “Someone’s out there.”

  “Maybe it’s Daddy,” Dusty offered in a whisper. “Or Ruff or Guthrie come back.”

  “The horses wouldn’t be spooked…” His voice trailed off. Suddenly he flung the door open and shouted. “Who’s there?”

  The answer came quickly in the shrill repeat of gunfire. Dusty saw a woodchip fly off the doorframe where a bullet hit. She watched Ryder aim his rifle and fire several rounds in return before slamming the door. “That wasn’t very bright,” he grumbled. Bullets immediately riddled the kitchen window, sending glass crashing into the sink and over the floor. Dusty screamed and covered her ears.

  “Get the babies and bring them closer to us!” Reaching over and pulling a piece of glass out of his arm, he shouted, “Now!” The blood soaking the sleeve of his shirt caused Dust
y to pause, horrified at what was happening. “Go on, girl! And stay down low!”

  Quickly Dusty began crawling toward the bedroom, trying to keep her wits about her. Even though the gunfire had stopped for the moment, the fear in her was almost paralyzing. She could hear the children crying and reached the bedroom just as Makenna came running out, carrying her brother as best she could.

  “Dusty!” the child cried.

  Dusty took both children in her arms and hugged them quickly before carrying them back toward the kitchen. She stood to carry them, crouching over all the same. As she entered the kitchen, Ryder lifted the enormous kitchen table, turning it on its side, and motioned to Dusty and the children to get behind it. Then, going to one of the broken windows, he knelt below it, carefully peeking outside and then aiming his rifle.

  He was patient and did not fire. He would make certain he was sure of his shot. It seemed to Dusty it would be impossible for him to hit anything in the dark. When he did fire three times in succession, Dusty heard a shout from outside and knew he’d been successful. Almost immediately, however, whoever was left outside returned fire. Ryder scrambled behind the table. The children were frightened into silence, though tears profusely streamed down their faces. Dusty comforted them as best she could—holding them tightly to her.

  “Who are they?” she asked him in a whisper when the gunfire died down again.

  Ryder shook his head. “We’ll stay back here. It gives me a good shot if they try to—”

  More gunfire interrupted him. This time, however, the shots were not hitting the house. Dusty heard her father shouting above the noise.

  “They’re back!” Ryder breathed. Jumping to his feet, he bolted for the back door before she could stop him.

  He started to open the door, no doubt to join the fight now that the threat seemed to be distracted from the house. Looking and seeing Dusty and the children huddled in fear, he paused, his attention arrested by something else. Slowly he turned toward the parlor and peered into the darkness. A shot split through the room. Dusty saw Ryder reel back a moment before firing his rifle into the darkened room beyond. Blood immediately stained his shirt at the shoulder as he fired several more shots. As he headed toward the parlor, Dusty reached out and caught hold of his leg.

  “Wait,” she begged.

  “It’s all right,” he muttered without looking at her. Carefully he disappeared into the parlor.

  “He’s down,” he called. She heard him growling angrily at someone and could hear scuffling, and in the next moment, her father burst through the front door.

  Dusty screamed, startled at her father’s abrupt entrance. “Ryder’s been hurt! Where’s Becca? What’s going on?” she babbled anxiously as she pointed her father toward the parlor.

  Ryder entered the kitchen, nodding a greeting at Hank and saying, “Got one tied down in there. Son of a—gun got into the dang house!”

  Hank reached out and tugged at Ryder’s torn shirt to inspect the wounds in his shoulder and arm. “There’s four more out in the yard there. Two were already down when we got here. The others…” He trailed off and looked to Dusty. “Rustlers. Went after Alex Jones’s steers. Guess they weren’t satisfied with ’em and decided to come here ’fore makin’ for the hills.”

  “Is Alex well?” Dusty asked. “Kenna said he was injured and…”

  Hank glanced to Kenna, her large blue eyes filled with fear and sadness. “Alex’s fine. Couple a broken ribs, I think.” Then he nodded to Ryder and added, “Looks like this boy’s more banged up than Alex. You better get to it, Dusty. Clean him up.” Reaching out, he smiled, hefting Kenna up onto one hip and Jakie onto the other. “We’ll let Feller and the other boys help the sheriff, and I’ll take care of these little bits.” With a chuckle, he trotted down the hall with the children, rattling off something about having peppermint sticks hidden under his bed.

  Dusty stood, mouth gaping as she stared after him. That was it? Her father waltzes in after a confrontation the likes of rustlers and just gallops the children back to the bedroom? And where was Becca? Certainly she wasn’t out in the yard cleaning up dead rustlers with Feller and the sheriff.

  She turned quickly as she heard Ryder’s boots heavy on the kitchen floor headed for the door. “Hold on there,” she scolded, reaching out and taking hold of his pants by the waist. “You’re not goin’ anywhere!”

  “It’s just a scratch or two, Dusty. I don’t need—” he began to argue.

  “Sit!” she commanded, pointing to a chair.

  With a heavy sigh, Ryder turned the chair around and, straddling it and sitting down hard, stripped off his shirt. She knew he was near to crazy with wanting to be outside where the excitement was. Yet she also knew how fast infection could set into a serious wound. So with great trepidation, she mustered her courage, inhaled, and bent down to investigate his injuries.

  “It’s a pretty bad graze at your shoulder,” she mumbled more to herself than anyone, “but this one on your arm…” It was a deep wound the glass had made. Undoubtedly, Ryder Maddox would have another nasty scar to add to his collection.

  Dusty bustled around boiling water and retrieving ointments and bandages. All the while, Ryder sat patiently watching her scurry about. At last, she set the kettle of hot water on the floor and began sponging his wounds clean. She glanced up to see him smiling down on her. A frown immediately puckered her brow.

  “What?” she asked.

  “Nothin’,” he chuckled, wincing as she cleaned the wound on his arm.

  “What?” she demanded indignantly. What could he possibly find amusing about their situation?

  “Just you…so frownin’ and serious.”

  His answer seemed absolutely ludicrous. Of course she was serious! Alex and Alice had been attacked! Ryder had been injured! Becca was who knew where, and there were dead men lying in the yard! Then she remembered something else. There was one in the parlor as well!

  “There’s a man in the parlor!” Dusty exclaimed, leaping to her feet.

  “Oh, he’s out cold,” Ryder assured her. “I made sure of it. The sheriff can get him when he’s done out there.”

  Dusty looked at him and shook her head. Men! Was everything always so trivial in their eyes? Again Ryder chuckled, and Dusty scowled at him.

  “I’ll have to stitch this one shut, you know.”

  “I know.”

  “Then what are you still grinnin’ about?” She had lost any amount of patience she might have possessed.

  “You,” came his answer. “A-scurryin’ around like a little mother mouse.”

  “Would you prefer I left ya here to get infected and die, writhin’ in pain and the stench of gangrene stinkin’ up my kitchen? Maggots eatin’ out your eyes?” She sighed with irritation as he laughed wholeheartedly.

  She flung the cloth she’d been using to tend to his wounds at him and turned to leave. But he reached out and caught hold of her skirts. She turned to face him indignantly.

  “Now don’t go hissin’ your tail up,” he said, smiling and standing up from the chair. He put his hands at her waist and pulled her toward him. The syrup of his eyes sent her heart to pounding a different beat than when she’d been scared such a short time before. “I was just thinkin’…I like playin’ house with you now a whole lot more than I did when you were little.” As Dusty’s eyes widened at his flirtatious manner, he added, “Well…let’s just say…it’s a mite different these days.”

  Quickly, she swallowed the impulse to throw herself against him, wrap her arms around his neck, and draw blissful rapture from his mouth. Instead she calmly stated, “I imagine that it is…bein’ that you’re standin’ here bleedin’ your life out all over me.”

  “I ain’t bleedin’ to death, and you know it,” he mumbled, brushing a strand of hair from the corner of her mouth.

  Almost instantly, the realization she’d been trying to ignore for the past while hit her fully in the midsection. Tears sprang to her eyes and tumbled over her chee
ks.

  “But you could’ve been!” He could easily have been killed in the shooting—walking into the parlor as he had done—even by the glass flying everywhere when the windows shattered.

  “Naw,” he breathed. “Not me. It would take a lot more’n rustlers to take me down.” His reassurances comforted her—no matter how unrealistic they were. She smiled, brushing the tears from her cheeks. He endeavored to pull her closer to him, but she pressed her hands against him with resistance.

  “I’m upset,” she whispered. “I…I don’t want ya to tease me just now.”

  “I’m not teasin’ you, kitten,” he mumbled, kissing the top of her head. Then he did what she wanted him to do. He gathered her into his powerful embrace as he said, “I’m holdin’ you close to my heart so you’ll hear it beatin’ and know this whole mess is over…and I’m just fine.”

  Dusty laid her cheek against the warmth of his mighty chest and indeed drew greater comfort than she had imagined possible from the soft rhythm originating within him. The beat of his heart was so soothing—so strong. She knew why babies liked to lie against their mothers’ breasts to go to sleep—understood why she had often seen her mother with her head lying against her father’s chest as they lay stretched out under the big oak watching their girls wade in the creek. It was an embrace of security—an assurance that the person you loved indeed lived.

  “Now, finish playin’ house with me and bandage me up so I can get out there and find out what needs doin’. All right?” Dusty unwillingly pushed herself out of Ryder’s embrace and nodded. She directed him to the chair, and she continued patching him up.

  “Them babies will probably have nightmares for a year after all this,” he mumbled, wincing as she worked on him.

  Dusty nodded, guiltily distracted by the smooth contours of his arms and shoulders as she tended him. Ryder was exactly what her rather outrageous Aunt Gertie would’ve called “a mean piece of work.” How could any woman not throw herself at his feet and beg him to love her? she wondered briefly.