The Rancher's Courtship & Lone Wolf's Lady

by Laurie Kingery

  He’d caught Raleigh eyeing him speculatively again, but he guessed his ramrod wasn’t about to ask him any questions after that time Jack had snapped at him for not minding his own business.

  And he wasn’t about to tell Caroline about it, either, just yet. What if he wasn’t capable of translating his ideas into a decent house? After all, he was a rancher, not a builder. Just because they’d managed to put up a bunkhouse that was good enough for a bunch of rough-and-ready drovers didn’t mean he could build an entire house a woman would be willing to live in.

  Worse yet, what if he told her, and Caroline refused to let him court her? He’d feel like a fool, and the house at Collier’s Roost, as she had named the place, might become known as “Collier’s Folly.” He’d have no choice but to continue on to Montana after that.

  * * *

  He’d have been surprised to know that Caroline was having secret thoughts of her own, too. Now, as Jack poured the steaming water into two wide, shallow buckets, one to wash the dishes in, one to rinse them, she stole a sidelong glance at Jack and wondered how she should make the first move—or if she should leave it up to him.

  Then he picked up the dishrag, and she tried to grab it from him. “I’m sure you should let me do the washing,” she said, when he jerked his hand upward beyond her grasp. “What will your men say if you show back up at the bunkhouse with dishpan hands?”

  Still holding the washrag teasingly out of her reach, he held out his other hand and rotated it for her inspection. “Look at this hand. Do you think they’d even be able to tell I’ve been washing dishes?”

  She studied it. The skin was tanned and creased with a network of small scratches, scrapes and scars. It was a workman’s hand, with callused fingertips. Just for a moment she imagined them caressing her cheek.

  Where had that thought come from?

  Jack dropped the rag into the hot water. “Whereas your hands, Teacher,” he said, seizing them in his before she knew what he was about, “are not already damaged.” She felt him gently assessing the pads of her thumbs with his own for the space of a few heartbeats until she yanked her hands out of his grasp.

  Caroline turned startled eyes up to his and was alarmed to see the intensity in the blue eyes that looked back at her. They were Pete’s eyes...and yet not.

  She felt the heat rise up her neck suffuse her cheeks. “Nonsense. I do dishes every day of the year, J-Jack,” she said, stumbling over his name as she tried to adopt her severest tone. Stepping in front of the bucket that held the dishrag, she plunged her hand into the hot water and grabbed a dirty dish from the pile next to her. “Now, since you’re dillydallying, I’m going to wash while this water is still hot.”

  She could feel his amused gaze on her as she started rubbing the wet, soapy rag against the dish as if she was trying to rub the painted-on flowers off.

  For a while, they worked in silence, until they had almost entirely gone through the stack of food-stained dishes and silverware.

  “Dan tells me you’ve finished the bunkhouse,” she said at last.

  “Yes, just the day before he came out. It’s nice to be warm and dry at night,” he said, “though I’ll admit I liked just opening my eyes and looking up at the stars.”

  “So what will you do to pass the time now?” Caroline asked, “when you’re not tending cattle or horses and such?”

  “Oh, you know, the usual, I imagine—coming into town to see the twins...hunting game for Cookie’s pot... Actually, I was hoping you might be able to help me with that,” he said, startling her so badly that she almost dropped the wet cut-crystal jelly dish, her mother’s pride and joy, as she was handing it to him to dry.

  “Me? I’m no hunter! I couldn’t hit an elephant if it was standing still in front of me.”

  His laugh was rich and full and wrapped itself in warm tendrils around her heart. “No, I meant to help me pass the time.”

  For a moment, she thought perhaps he meant he wanted to spend more time with her, and she felt a little thrill that it had been so easy after all.

  Then he said, “I thought I might spend some time reading, and I was going to ask if you might be able to lend me a book off that shelfful out by the fireplace. Your pa tells me they’re all yours, except for an almanac of his and the family Bible. I promise I’d take good care of it.”

  “Oh,” she murmured, feeling faintly foolish for misunderstanding. “Well, of course. What sort of thing do you like to read?” She should feel flattered that he wanted to read one of her books.

  He shrugged, still holding the dish with one hand, then set it down with the others he’d dried. “I don’t know... I haven’t had much time for reading, so I couldn’t rightly say.”

  She thought a moment, her hands still in the soapy water. “How about A Tale of Two Cities, by Charles Dickens?”

  “What’s that about?”

  “The French Revolution and love that sacrifices for the greater good,” she said, imagining him reading Dickens’s stirring prose. “It starts out, ‘It was the best of times, it was the worst of times,’” she quoted.

  He looked quizzical. “I don’t know how a time could be both, but I’m willing to try it,” he said.

  “Or perhaps Robinson Crusoe would be more to your taste? It’s about a man who’s shipwrecked and his life on an island far from civilization.”

  “I reckon I’ll try that Dickens fellow’s book first, and then when I finish it, I’ll borrow the other one—assuming the French story doesn’t take me all winter to read,” he said.

  She glanced out the window and saw that the rain was still pouring down. “It looks like a good afternoon for reading,” she said.

  An hour later, he was ensconced in a chair, poring over Dickens’s masterpiece, while she graded her pupil’s copybook exercises. The twins were still playing checkers with Dan and her father, Amelia crowing as Dan directed her to jump Abby’s checker and get herself kinged.

  Caroline was aware of a feeling of peace and contentment she had not felt in a long time.

  * * *

  “Jack Collier!” a voice called as he reached the town’s main street after picking up his horse at the livery.

  Sheriff Bishop beckoned to him from the doorway of the jail. “Wonder if I might have a moment of your time?”

  “Of course,” Jack said, reining his mount over to the hitching post. A thin snake of apprehension slithered down the back of his neck. Bishop didn’t look angry, but he did have his serious face on. Had one of Jack’s men sneaked into town last night and, despite warnings on the subject, gotten into a ruckus for which Jack was now going to have to bail him out of jail? Had there been some trouble at the ranch, or worse yet, had one of his drovers been ill-mannered enough to have gotten into a tussle with one of the Brookfield cowboys at the Thanksgiving dinner in the Brookfield bunkhouse?

  Jack couldn’t believe any of those things could be true, and if they were, Raleigh Masterson would have come and notified him personally, not waited till he returned to the ranch. So what had happened?

  “What can I do for you, Sheriff?”

  Bishop shrugged. “Maybe nothing. You mentioned two of your men decided to leave your employ when you decided to stay in Simpson Creek over the winter.”

  “Yes... Shorty Adams and Alvin Sims,” Jack said. “They didn’t want to turn their hands to building instead of cowboying, when I said we’d be constructing a bunkhouse, so I paid them what I owed them and sent them on their way. No hard feelings. They rode on, far as I know—why?”

  “One of ’em a rangy bowlegged fellow and the other short and stocky? Scar on his face?”

  Jack nodded, wary, still sitting on his horse. “They in some kind of trouble?” Involuntarily, his gaze lifted past the sheriff to the door of the jail.

  Bishop followed the direction of his gaze and shook his head. “No, I don’t have ’em in
my jail cells, if that’s what you’re thinkin’. But they’ve been comin’ into town of a night and raising Cain in the saloon, causing trouble for the pair of girls George has working there. Now, George doesn’t keep track of what these ladies do on their own, but they don’t have rooms upstairs in the saloon, if you get my meanin’.”

  Jack did.

  “And that isn’t all. A couple of ranchers have reported the loss of a steer here or there. The last time whoever butchered the steer didn’t trouble to even hide the carcass when he was done with it—just left it on the property. And yesterday, Hal Parker told me one of his horses came up missing, a blaze-faced sorrel gelding.”

  “What makes you think it was these two?” Jack asked, careful to keep his tone nondefensive. If Adams and Sims were rustling cattle and stealing horses, he didn’t want any part of them.

  “Some cowhands of a rancher named Beaudine were tryin’ to round up a stray and they came upon a couple of fellas they described like I just described ’em to you, roastin’ a spit of beef. ’Course, they couldn’t prove anything at that point, so they told ’em they were trespassing on Beaudine land and they’d have to leave after they finished their grub. And Parker caught a glimpse of ’em runnin’ off with his sorrel, but by the time he’d mounted up, he couldn’t catch ’em.”

  Jack pondered the information. “I haven’t seen those two since they left us, though the men have seen them in the saloon a time or two when they’ve taken turns coming into town. They said Alvin and Shorty told them they were doing odd jobs for ranchers around here.”

  Bishop looked dubious, but he said nothing.

  Then Jack remembered Abby and Amelia reporting their encounter with the two men. “Though now that you mention it, my girls mentioned seeing them in town. I’m afraid they never liked them two much.” Any more than he had. He wished he’d managed to resist his stepmother’s pleas for him to hire them.

  “I figured you didn’t know what they were up to,” Bishop said. “Just thought I’d let you know, in case you see them. You might want to remind them they still hang horse thieves in these parts.”

  Jack nodded. “Where I come from, too.”

  “Advise them to be move on, pronto.”

  “Will do.”

  The encounter cast a cloud over the buoyant mood he’d had when he left the Wallaces after seeing Caroline and his girls depart for school. It had been too cold and damp to spend the night on the summer porch, and he’d had to bunk with young Dan, who snored as loud as a man four times his age. In spite of that Jack had slept well. When he’d left the house, he’d been looking forward to returning on Saturday for the church rededication supper and seeing Caroline and his girls again. But now it seemed that two of his former drovers were well on their way to becoming outlaws. It made him sick to think that that pair had been around his daughters.

  Would they have found their way into trouble if Jack hadn’t had to stop and winter in Simpson Creek? There was no way of knowing.

  And no use torturing himself wondering, he thought as his horse headed out of Simpson Creek at an easy lope. It was much more enjoyable to contemplate seeing Caroline again and anticipating the hours he’d have tonight to delve back into the exotic world of Paris in the midst of revolution he’d found between the pages of the book Caroline had loaned him. He couldn’t wait to discuss it with her.

  Halfway between the town and the ranch, he came upon Masterson headed toward Simpson Creek, driving the wagon they’d rented for the winter.

  Raleigh waved as he slowed the wagon horses. “Thought I’d head to the mercantile and the lumberyard and pick up a few things we’re gonna need to work on the ranch house, boss. The rest of the boys are cuttin’ logs and gatherin’ stones from the pastures.”

  “Good idea.” He was pleased his ramrod had taken the initiative, and that the rest of the men were eager to work on the project. “Just don’t tell anyone what you’re doing with the materials for now, okay? I’d like to keep our little project our secret for the time being, okay?”

  Masterson’s eyes were shrewd as he studied Jack, and Jack had the feeling his ramrod had already figured out the reason for Jack’s request. Which was all right, he supposed, as long as Raleigh didn’t say so.

  “I’ll be quiet as a snowflake fallin’ on a feather, boss.”

  Jack grinned. “You fellows have a good time eating turkey with the Brookfield cowboys yesterday?”

  Masterson rubbed his stomach and gave a mock groan. “I’m still so full I could hardly eat more than a dozen of Cookie’s flapjacks this mornin’. That Mrs. Brookfield knows how to put on the chow! We ate till we could hardly mount our horses. Ol’ Wes, he sure didn’t let havin’ just one good hand slow him down none. He had to let out his belt three notches.”

  “Sounds like a fine time was had by all. The girls and I had quite a meal, too.”

  Raleigh looked as if he wanted to ask more about that, but instead he said, “Boss, you’ll never guess who turned up for breakfast this mornin’.”

  Jack sighed, afraid he already knew the answer.

  “Shorty and Alvin. Seems the odd jobs ’round these parts have run dry, and they want to know if you’d hire ’em on again. I told ’em you were fixin’ to rebuild the ranch house, and they’d have to be willin’ to pitch in on that before you’d take ’em back. They said they’d help. They’re waitin’ for your say-so at the bunkhouse, boss.”

  “Was one of them ridin’ a blaze-faced sorrel gelding?” Jack asked, feeling a sour taste in his mouth. Surely the pair wasn’t loco enough to keep a stolen horse in the same county they stole it in.

  “No...” Masterson looked puzzled. “What’re you talkin’ about, boss?”

  Jack told him. “So I won’t be rehiring them.”

  His ramrod whistled. “Can’t blame you there. I’ve gotta admit I never cottoned to either of ’em. Shifty-eyed and lazy.”

  He left Masterson and traveled the remaining miles to Collier’s Roost, dreading the confrontation with Sims and Adams.

  It was no more pleasant than he’d expected. He found Shorty Adams and Alvin Sims lounging around the campfire, mugs of coffee and tin plates of beans in their hands. The rest of his drovers hadn’t stopped for the noon meal yet and were still hard at work hauling rocks and chopping wood. Cookie looked sourer than ever as he kneaded biscuit dough, most likely because of the two saddle tramps. It had probably been easier to give them food than listen to them jawing.

  Alvin Sims got lazily to his feet as Jack rode in, stretched, and scratched the scruff of beard on his face.

  “Howdy, Jack. How’s those purdy gals of yours?”

  Jack had never insisted on formality and didn’t mind his men calling him “Jack” or “Boss” instead of “Mr. Collier.” But under the circumstances, Sims’s familiarity rankled. And he sure didn’t like Sims mentioning his children.

  Sims didn’t seem to notice Jack’s lack of response. “Me an’ Shorty had a while to think on it,” the other man said, “an’ we realized we mighta been a mite hasty in leavin’ ya like we did. We come back to hire on again.” His confident grin was more like a smirk.

  Shorty stood, too, but his expression was more ingratiating. “We’ll work real hard, boss. You won’t have no cause to complain.”

  “Like you’re doing now?” Jack said. If he’d come back to find them working alongside his men, putting in an effort, he might have been able to convince himself the sheriff had been mistaken, but not now.

  Both men’s smiles faded somewhat, and their faces reddened.

  “We was hungry, boss,” Alvin said, his tone wheedling now. “Figured we’d get right to work over there,” he said, jerking his head in the direction of the other men, “soon’s we had our bellies full. We ain’t had no regular work, hard as we tried.”

  “Yeah, Mr. Collier,” Shorty put in. “Never shoulda left ya, an’ t
hat’s a fact.”

  “You can finish those beans, then ride on. I don’t have any work for you.” Jack kept his tone matter-of-fact.

  “Whaddya mean, no work?” Alvin protested. “Raleigh said you’re rebuildin’ the ranch house. You sayin’ you couldn’t use more hands?”

  “I could have before I talked to the sheriff this mornin’. I didn’t like what I heard. You’ve been causing trouble at the saloon, and—”

  “Last I heard, gettin’ familiar with saloon girls ain’t a crime,” Alvin said, hands spread wide. He tried to assume an innocent expression and failed.

  “If that was all, I still wouldn’t take you back,” Jack said. “But there’s also reports of rustled beef, a stolen horse... No, afraid I can’t have you working for me.” He kept his hand on his upper leg, as he sat in the saddle, but it was only inches from his pistol.

  Alvin’s eyes narrowed. “You accusin’ us a’ rustlin’, Jack? An’ horse-stealin’? On whose say-so?”

  “You were seen, Sims. Described. Sheriff told me to remind you that stealing a horse is liable to get you strung up.”

  Sims’s jaw hardened, and he glanced at the gun belt he’d left too far away on his upended saddle. Shorty wasn’t armed, either, but Adams wouldn’t have had the nerve to draw on him even if he’d been wearing his gun belt. Neither man noticed that Cookie had put down his dough and quietly pulled out a rifle, but Jack appreciated the older man’s support. And now he saw Quint and Shep approaching.

  “You men go cut your horses out of the remuda, saddle up and ride on. Now.”

  Sims’s eyes blazed. “You’re makin’ a mistake, Collier. You ain’t got no right to accuse us a’ anything.”

  The two drifters hadn’t seen Quint and Shep coming toward them, but now they looked to the side and saw that Jack’s men held pistols trained on them.

  “Keep their pistols, Quint. They can have ’em back when they’re mounted and ready to ride out.”