“Thank you, my darling husband.”
He sent her a thoughtful look. The silence grew oppressive as they focused on eating. Finally, Connor laid down his fork and pushed away his empty plate. “What did they teach you in that fancy school you went to?”
“Poetry. Embroidery. Watercolors.”
“Fine. If you need something to do, embroider me a handkerchief.”
“Don’t be foolish.”
“I’m not joking.” He got up, leaned down to give her a quick, hard kiss on the lips and straightened. “I’m your darling husband. I want you to embroider me a handkerchief.”
Susanna listened to the steady thud of his boots as he walked out of the room. The audacity of the man. And yet, she wanted to laugh, because it was so much like when they were young and he teased the airs and graces out of her. An idea formed in her mind, making a chuckle rise in her throat. She would show the bullying oaf that she hadn’t lost her wits just because she was his wife.
She hurried upstairs, into the small parlor her mother had used for sewing and found a bolt of delicate white cotton. Then she fetched one of the large handkerchiefs that had been her father’s and measured out a square. Carefully, she cut a pretty scalloped pattern around the edges, threaded a needle, and started to embroider the border.
After an hour, she had only finished half of one side. Her fingertips stung with pricks from the needle and her eyes were blurring. She took out a pair of scissors and cut the fabric into four squares, the resulting handkerchiefs too dainty to be much use even for a lady. She studied them, smiled, and went back to embroidering the edges.
****
Connor rode into the stable yard and climbed down from Brutus, his muscles stiff from a long day in the saddle. He took his place by the pump at the well, waiting in line with other men who had finished their work for the day. When it came his turn to wash, the sun was just about to dip below the hilltops on the horizon.
Behind him, he heard Ramirez call out a greeting. “Miss Susanna.”
Connor finished cranking the pump handle and splashed water over his face to get rid of the sweat and dust. Straightening, he stepped aside to make room for the next man and tugged at the big blue kerchief that hung looped around his neck.
Before he could see his wife, he heard her croon in a syrupy voice that he knew meant trouble, “Oh no, my darling husband, don’t use that old rag.”
Slowly, he turned. Susanna was flapping one hand side to side, waving a tiny scrap of white cloth in the air like a victory flag. “Look what I made for you,” she gushed.
He took the embroidered handkerchief from her. It barely covered his palm. The fabric was so thin that he could see his callused skin shining through.
“Well, use it,” she prompted. “I embroidered it for you.”
Connor mopped his dripping face with the white cotton square. The cloth soaked through at the first pat. After that, he was simply pushing water around his features.
“Very nice,” Susanna said. “White flatters you.” She yanked away the sturdy man-sized kerchief around his neck. “I’ll make you more, so you’ll have a full dozen. You’ll never need to use these cheap rags again.” She stuffed his favorite kerchief into the pocket of the big, shapeless apron she wore. Then she stood still and gazed expectantly at him.
Connor stared at the papery fabric that clung to his fingers. “No more embroidered handkerchiefs,” he told her. “Paint me a watercolor. I’d like a picture of Circle Star.”
****
“Where is Miss Susanna?” Connor asked Miranda the following day when he strode into the house at sundown and failed to locate his wife.
“Miss Susanna is unwell. She is in bed.”
Fear hit him like a knife in his gut. “What’s wrong? Is she sick?”
“No.” Miranda made a disapproving huff. “She burned her skin.”
Burned her skin? Connor raced up the stairs and burst into her bedroom. Susanna lay on the bed, tucked beneath the covers. Her face was flushed. The tip of her nose glowed strawberry pink.
“What happened?” Connor asked. His eyes roamed frantically over her reclining shape and reddened features, seeking signs of injury.
“Nothing happened,” she replied calmly. “I’ve been painting a watercolor for you. I’m much better at it than I’m at embroidery.” She flung the covers aside and scrambled up, the long cotton nightgown fluttering around her bare feet.
Connor watched her easy, agile movements and breathed more easily. Susanna marched over to the chest of drawers by the window and lifted up a half finished picture of the façade of the house.
“What do you think?” she asked.
For a second, he could only stare. The painting was excellent. The wide adobe front with its pink hues, the oak front door, the terracotta tile roof, all the colors were true and the details perfect. Even the glass on the downstairs windows seemed to glisten in the sun.
He shook off the surprise and returned his attention to his wife’s flushed features. “Why is your skin burned?” he demanded to know. “Did you have an accident in the kitchen?”
“Oh no.” She sent him a proud smile. “I wanted to get the sunlight on the windows, and you can only get at around two in the afternoon. See here?” She pointed at the sparkling glass she’d captured with such amazing skill. “I’ll finish it tomorrow. I need to get the sunlight exactly the same way, so I can get the upstairs windows just right. It will be around two o’clock in the afternoon again.”
His voice was strangled. “Didn’t you wear at hat?”
“Oh no.” She looked at him with big, innocent eyes. “That’s one thing I learned at that fancy school I went to. A shadow over the artist’s eyes will ruin the light, making it impossible to get the color right.”
She focused on picture, holding it up with both hands. “When I’ve finished this, I’ll do one of the stables, and then the gateposts by the entrance. I’ll make you a whole set and put them up on the library wall.”
“And I guess they all need to be done in the midday sun without a hat?”
She gave him that innocent look again. “That’s when the light is at its best,” she informed him, and then she pattered in her bare feet to the chest of drawers and put the picture away.
Connor resigned to his defeat as his wife turned to him, her head tilted to one side, like a hopeful sparrow. “Of course,” she said slowly, “I’d much rather come out and help you at the east corrals.”
A sigh rumbled out of his chest. He’d been a fool to think that Susanna could no longer wrap him around her little finger. To the contrary, she seemed to have become better at it. “All right,” he said. “You can join me tomorrow.”
****
Susanna stood at the back of the chuck wagon and poured coffee beans into the grinder. Cookie—a robust man of forty whose badly heeled broken leg had ended his career as a cowboy—sat on a stumpy stool beside her, slicing up a side of mutton.
“Eh,” he said. “If I was you I’d still be abed with a maid bringing me coffee.”
Susanna smiled. “I’ll make you coffee in the morning.”
Cookie roared with laughter. “A lady waitin’ on me. I’ll feel like a king.”
The east corrals nestled in the dip of the hills, sheltered from the winds. The chuck wagon and two big canvas tents formed a camp for the men who had stayed out overnight. In the corral, four cowboys were branding the new calves. The smell of burning cowhide and the frantic squealing of the terrified animals saturated the air.
Susanna had ridden in on Santiago, alongside Connor and four ranch hands. When they arrived, Connor had left her in the care of Cookie. “Stay by the chuck wagon,” he’d ordered. “I’m not going to risk having my men distracted if you go wondering about and get in the way.”
“I grew up on a ranch,” she protested. “I know what to do.”
“You didn’t grow up on a ranch,” Connor said. “You spent your childhood on a ranch, and that was a long time ago. No
w you’re a lady who needs to keep out of the way.” He glared down at her from his height on Brutus. “Is that clear?”
“Fine,” she muttered. “I promise to keep out of the way.”
And she had, except for a small excursion to watch the men press the glowing iron to the flank of the helpless baby calves. The sight had nearly made her retch, a reaction that had promptly sent her scurrying back to the chuck wagon.
While helping Cookie, Susanna had been keeping an eye on Connor as he worked with the men. Despite the long years away from the ranch, he still handled a cutting horse as well as anyone. Twice, he’d stopped by for a coffee. Before riding off again, he had teased her by producing the tiny embroidered handkerchief to wipe the sweat from his brow.
A gunshot echoed in the distance.
Susanna ceased her grinding. She surveyed the valley for the source of the sound. A blind, irrational fear surged inside when she realized Connor had disappeared out of sight. She put down the coffee grinder and took a step forward, heading over to where Santiago stood grazing on the coarse grass only a short distance away.
She would just ride beyond the hill.
Make sure Connor was all right.
Ever since the bullet had grazed the top of his arm three weeks ago, a restless concern over his safety had plagued her. Connor had told her the gunshot must have ricocheted from a rock, or the surface of the river. Someone must have fired at a rattlesnake, or a Gila monster, or a rodent, unaware of his presence. That was the only rational explanation, and yet Susanna could not shake off her feelings of unease.
“Why you look so scairt?” Cookie asked. “They’ve shot a lame cow is all.”
“I…” She took a deep breath. If she disobeyed Connor’s orders to keep out of the way, he’d never let her join the men again. She took another step toward Santiago.
In the next instant, the ground vibrated under her feet. A rider stormed closer. Beneath the brim of his hat, locks of sandy hair flowed in the wind. Connor came to a sharp halt beside her and tossed a dead calf at her feet.
“Dinner,” he said. Then he noticed her pale face. “What’s wrong?”
“The gunshot…I wanted to ride over and see...”
His expression hardened. “If I’d seen you in the saddle, it would have marked the end of your career as Cookie’s assistant. I can’t afford to employ men who disobey my orders.” He turned his horse around. “Not even you,” he said before riding off again.
Susanna watched him vanish behind the hillside on the paint cutting horse. Strong. Capable. In command. An excellent rider, a competent marksman. He was all those things, and yet the vague fear for his safety that niggled inside her refused to go away.
****
Connor led Brutus out of the stables and met Pete Jackson’s belligerent stare. “I’m going to ride out the western boundary,” he informed the foreman. “A fence needs repairing where the property line curves away from the river.”
Pete spoke tartly. '“Are you letting Miss Susanna come along?”
“No,” Connor said and steeled himself for a reproach.
He couldn’t tell the foreman that he needed some time away from Susanna. Two days ago, when she’d come out to watch the branding of the new calves, it had terrified him to discover how easily he had fallen into the pattern of giving in to her whims.
“A man doesn’t take a wife to ignore her,” Pete said.
“She came to the east corrals with me.”
Pete pulled off his gloves and flapped them against his leather chaps to dislodge the caked bits of mud. “What is it exactly that you are planning to do with all those cows you are separating from the others?”
Connor hesitated. Up to now, he’d kept his ambitions to himself, but Pete had the right to know. “I want to buy a Hereford bull. They come by ship to San Francisco, all the way from England. I want to breed it with the longhorn stock. I’ve read about it. It gives cattle that’s hardy but has a better weight gain ratio.”
“Does Susanna like the idea?” Pete asked. From the crafty glint in the old man’s eyes, Connor suspected he already knew the answer but couldn’t stop meddling.
“I haven’t told her.”
“A man doesn’t take a wife to ignore her.”
A sharp retort about old age and people who repeated their words sprung to Connor’s mind, but he bit it back and told Pete the truth. “I don’t want to mention it to Susanna until I can raise the money. Hereford bulls are expensive.”
Pete rubbed the crest of his cheek. “Miss Susanna used up the reserves tracking you down, and she sends money to her mother. There won’t be a penny to spare until we sell more cattle next summer.”
Connor heard the thud of footsteps and turned to look behind him. The two ranch hands he trusted the most were returning from the kitchen, where they’d been having their lunch. Garrett’s red hair flashed in the sun as he adjusted his hat. “Ready to go, Boss?”
“In a minute,” Connor called back. He waited for Garrett and the squat, dark Ramirez to untie their horses from the beam by the water trough and get mounted.
Turning back to Pete, Connor spoke in a low voice. “I wouldn’t take Susanna’s money even if she had some to spare. I took half of Circle Star and that’s enough. I’ll find some way to raise the funds. The Hereford bull will be my investment in the ranch.”
“There’s a proverb about that,” Pete said.
Connor lifted his eyebrows in question.
“Pride goes before fall.”
“That’s no truer than old age brings wisdom.” Without waiting for an answer, Connor vaulted on Brutus and waved for Garrett and Ramirez to follow him as he rode off, leaving the sound of Pete’s cackling laughter to ripple around the yard.
****
Susanna piled more stew on her plate. In her mind, she counted the days, and then she counted again and got the same answer. It had to be a false alarm. The early months of pregnancy were supposed to be plagued with bouts of nausea but her appetite had never been better.
She finished her lunch and spent a few hours reading. When the afternoon heat eased, she headed out to the stables. Santiago needed new shoes, and she wanted to ask Gomez to take him to the blacksmith in Cedar City when he had time to spare.
Pete was out in the yard, giving orders to a group of men. Susanna waited for the cowboys to scatter away to their chores. Walking up to Pete, she made an effort to appear casual as she put forward the question that puzzled her.
“Why is Connor so eager to find the best cows for breeding?”
Pete sent her a long look. “Why don’t you ask him?”
“I…” Susanna fell silent. Because I don’t think he’d tell me. The unspoken words hung in the air, as clear as a signpost.
“Heaven save me from a fighting couple,” Pete muttered. “He hasn’t told you because—”
Urgent beat of hooves echoed up the trail, causing him to pause, and they both turned to face the pillars that marked the entrance gate.
A rider thundered into the yard, vaulting from the horse even before it came to a stop. Susanna recognized Garrett, a tall man with red hair, one of the pair who usually accompanied Connor around the ranch.
“Get a doctor,” Garrett panted, holding on to the reins, fighting for breath. “It’s the boss. He’s been shot.”
Susanna froze. She heard someone scream. She knew the animal sound came out of her own mouth, but how could she manage to scream, when her body had turned to ice? It felt as though the entire world had stopped turning.
She stood like a statue while other people rushed around, the frantic crowd skirting away from her like waves wash off a rock on the shoreline. Someone brushed too close by and knocked against her. Susanna restored her balance and resumed waiting, her eyes fastened into the distance, from where Connor would arrive, fit and well, riding proudly on the back of his faithful Brutus.
“Go inside. You need to stay warm,” Pete begged her after the sun dropped below the horizon and the ai
r turned cool.
“No.” Susanna barely managed the single whispered word and a quick glance at him. Then her eyes returned to the path that led out to the barren desert, and she continued her vigil, ignoring everyone around her.
After a while, someone got a blanket and draped it over her shoulders.
When the darkness crept over the landscape, she listened, hearing the desert sounds the way she’d never heard them before, with a startling clarity and detail.
A chorus of birdsong as the last rays of the sun disappeared beyond the crest of the hills…a coyote barking in the distance, and another one replying from farther down the valley…a soft whoosh in the air, repeated over and over again. It took her a while to recognize the sound of a colony of bats streaming out to hunt.
Then everything else faded as she heard the rhythmic clatter of muffled hooves, made by a pair of horses approaching at a slow walk. Two shapes came out of the darkness, emerging into the circle of lanterns someone had lit around the yard.
One horse with a rider. The other horse—a big black stallion—carried the inert body of a man draped across its back.
“Is he alive?” someone asked.
“I don’t know,” the rider sitting up replied. Susanna heard the soft Spanish accent and knew who it was, although her numb mind struggled to come up with the name. Miranda’s husband, the stocky Mexican with a moustache. Ramirez, she recalled finally.
“I stopped checking an hour ago,” Ramirez said as he guided the horses to the center of the yard. “The bullet’s still in his chest, and he’s been bleeding a lot.” When the clatter of hooves came to a stop, he added, “We might need an undertaker instead of a doctor.”
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Chapter Thirteen
She was cold. So terribly cold. Susanna sat on a chair in the corner of the dining room, huddled beneath a blanket thrown over her shoulders. She was barely aware that her body was rocking back and forth. She heard a soft, whimpering sound, but she took it for gusts of wind outside instead of the rasp of her own troubled breathing.
Circle Star Page 15
