The Trailblazer

by Vicki Lewis Thompson

  “Clara was quite a woman.” Freddy clicked her tongue and urged Maureen down the trail with a nudge of her heels. “There’s a dry wash up ahead,” she called over her shoulder. “Want to lope the horses a little?”

  “Sure.” Maybe a good run would release some of the tension building in him. He’d thought that after fifteen years of commodities trading, he’d be immune to attacks of conscience about making money from the misfortunes of others. The free-enterprise system produced the healthiest economy in the world, but you had to play by the rules. People made money or went broke according to the demands of the market, and woe to the investor who worried about the hindmost.

  He eased Mikey down a rock embankment into a wide sandy riverbed littered with tree branches rubbed smooth by rushing water. He’d heard about flash floods and imagined this was the sort of place one would happen. But the sky was an unrelenting blue.

  With a whoop and a flick of her reins against Maureen’s polished rump, Freddy took off down the wash. With no prompting, Mikey leaped after her, and T.R. grabbed the saddle horn with one hand and his hat with the other.

  After the first moment of surprise, he gripped the horse with his thighs, crammed the hat more firmly on his head, and grasped the reins as he leaned into the wind. A fantasy created by years of Saturday-afternoon matinees came true in that moment—T. R. McGuinnes, famous gunslinger, galloped his cow pony under an endless sky, the hot wind flattening his Western shirt against his chest and whipping the horse’s mane against the backs of his hands. As he drew alongside Freddy, he looked over at her. She grinned at him, and in that pell-mell moment, with his heart pumping from the excitement of the run, he experienced a rush of emotion that scared the hell out of him. Immediately, he began reining in his horse. Within five seconds, T.R. McGuinnes, commodities trader and emotional conservative, was back in the saddle.

  * * *

  FREDDY NOTICED signs of strain in T.R. by the time they reached the pond that served as a reservoir for the True Love. An earthen dam cradled the waters of Rogue Creek about a third of the way up Rogue Canyon, and it was one of Freddy’s favorite spots on the ranch.

  T.R. winced as he dismounted and looked longingly at the cool water, as if he’d like nothing better than to strip and immerse himself in it. But to his credit, he didn’t complain. Freddy began to wonder what it would take to wring a protest out of him.

  Choosing her favorite flat rock under the shade of a large cottonwood, she tethered Maureen to a low branch and dug in her saddlebag for the sandwiches Belinda had given her. She’d also brought along some dehydrated stew that she’d brew up for their dinner, and each saddle had a bedroll tied to the cantle, but she didn’t want to announce their overnight plans yet. She wanted to be far enough into the canyon that T.R. wouldn’t consider finding his own way back to a Jacuzzi and a soft bed. She sat down and watched him, wondering how he’d take the news.

  T.R. tied Mikey’s reins to the same branch Freddy had used for Maureen and gingerly lowered himself to the rock. He’d obviously forgotten to bring his canteen when he’d dismounted, so she offered hers.

  “Oh!” He started to get up. “I have a—”

  “Never mind.” She pulled on his arm to bring him back beside her. “We can share.”

  “You first,” he said.

  She took a sip, wiped the rim on her sleeve, and offered it to him. Funny, she’d shared a canteen with riding partners all her life, yet she’d never been so aware of the intimacy of the act. Maybe it was the way he’d glanced at her mouth before he accepted the container of water.

  He started to drink, and paused. “Can we refill our canteens from the pond?”

  “Yes.” She was impressed that he’d thought to ask. Some tenderfeet would have gulped the contents of the canteen and worried about their water supply after it was exhausted. “Besides, I have a couple more jugs in my saddlebag.”

  “Good.” He tipped his head back and swallowed continuously until the canteen was empty. Like a schoolgirl, she watched him, noticing the surprising length of his eyelashes as he closed his eyes and the generous curve of his lower lip as it cupped the mouth of the canteen. A drop of moisture escaped and trickled down his chin. She had the sudden urge to lean over and lick it off. Good thing she’d planned this so he’d most likely be on a plane to New York by tomorrow, or no telling what stupid thing she might do. Her commitment to the ranch allowed no time for romance. Leigh had accused her of throwing herself into ranch work in order to compensate for not having a man in her life, but what did Leigh know?

  By the time T.R. had finished drinking, Freddy was busy unwrapping a sandwich. She handed it to him with brisk efficiency and began eating her own.

  “Where did the name of the ranch come from?” he asked. “The real estate broker didn’t seem to know.”

  Freddy was offended. In her opinion, no one should be allowed to market her ranch without understanding its history. “When Thaddeus announced he was marrying Clara, the churchgoing people around here had a fit,” she began. “Clara was a dance-hall girl, and some said she sold her favors.”

  “Sold her favors.” T.R. smiled. “Such a quaint way of putting it. Do you think she did?”

  Freddy looked into his blue eyes and a curl of awareness snaked through her midsection. They were, after all, talking about sex. “Probably. Back then, a single girl could either teach school, take in laundry or entertain men for a living. Clara didn’t have any education, and from what I know of her, she wasn’t the type to wash other people’s dirty shirts.”

  “Sounds like a feisty woman.” There was a note of approval in his voice.

  “She was. And Thaddeus was determined to have her, regardless of the wagging tongues. When they were married, he named the ranch the True Love to show those busybodies he didn’t give a hoot about their opinion.”

  “Good for him.”

  Freddy crumpled her sandwich wrapping. “He was true to her, and she to him, until the day she died, forty-three years later.”

  “I’ll bet he was true to her even after that.”

  She looked into his eyes and her heart stumbled. Not many men would chance making such a sentimental remark. “He probably was,” she said, a bit hypnotized by the depth of emotion in his gaze. She gave herself a mental shake. “If you’ll fill the canteens, we can head up the canyon,” she said, starting to rise.

  “Sure.” His slight groan as he pushed himself to his feet elicited sympathy from her instead of the satisfaction she’d hoped to feel. He walked stiffly to his horse, retrieved his canteen and returned slowly to the water’s edge with their two containers. He crouched, dipped the canteens in the water and clenched his jaw as he stood. “This is a nice spot,” he said, his tone conversational as he glanced at the granite walls rising on either side of them. She could imagine what it cost him to make pleasant comments when his thigh and groin muscles were very likely screaming in protest. “How long has it been here?”

  “Thirty years. My dad decided to dam up Rogue Creek and create a pond. He got sick of going to the mountains to fish, so he stocked it with bass.”

  “Why is it called Rogue Creek?”

  “Because it’s in Rogue Canyon.”

  He rolled his eyes.

  “The truth is, my great-grandfather had to come up here after rogue cougar. He shot the cougar, but not before the cougar almost killed his horse.”

  T.R. looked uneasy. “Are there any still living up here?”

  “A few.” Her conscience prickled her. “But you’ll probably never see one. They usually keep away from people.”

  “Fine with me.” He glanced back at the pond. “What if the ranch wanted to tap into this pond?”

  “Why would we?”

  “Say you wanted to put in more landscape plants, maybe a greater area in grass.”

  Freddy gave herself a mental slap for softening toward this dude. He was an Easterner, and the first thing most Easterners wanted to do was green up the desert and make it look
like the Boston Common. For all she knew, the guy had plans to build the True Love Golf Course out behind the corrals. “We try to keep our watering needs low by using plants that don’t require much moisture,” she said. “Ready to go? I want to show you the Forest Service land where we summer the cattle.”

  “Lead on.” Only the faintest flicker of his eyelashes betrayed his pain as he settled himself in the saddle once more.

  * * *

  BY FIVE O’CLOCK, T.R. wondered if he’d ever walk normally again. By six, he wondered if he’d ever walk again, period. And his feet weren’t the problem. He wasn’t a tenderfoot, he was a tenderass. He envisioned Duane and Curtis lifting him from Mikey’s broad back with his legs frozen in a permanent bow. He’d have to order a custom-made chair for his office in New York, one with inches of padding and a spacious enough seat to accommodate the new wide-open configuration of his thighs.

  They’d climbed for most of the afternoon. Cactus and sage had given way to something he recognized as belonging to the oak family and a type of evergreen with a fragrant bark, probably some sort of cedar. He supposed it was beautiful, if he could only give a damn. Who would have imagined that riding around the ranch could take this long? Surely they’d have to turn back soon, although he didn’t relish the idea of riding downhill and trying to keep his aching private parts from sliding forward against the saddle horn.

  He could hardly believe he’d begun this ride having sensual thoughts about the woman in front of him. He couldn’t imagine ever using his bruised equipment again. She’d not only crippled him, she’d ruined his future sex life. The crisp jeans that had made him feel like such a stud this morning now felt like chain mail wrapped around his genitals in an imitation of a medieval chastity belt.

  One image kept him going; one reward beckoned at the end of this torture trail. He pictured the Jacuzzi he’d seen beside the swimming pool, pictured himself being carried to it, eased into the water and left there for days. The image almost made him weep with longing.

  He was so engrossed in his suffering that he didn’t notice Freddy had stopped on the trail and he nearly ran Mikey up Maureen’s backside. Mikey realized the problem, snorted and backed up a step.

  Freddy swiveled in her saddle and smiled at him. “How are you doing?”

  Dammit, he wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of knowing the truth. “Fine,” he said.

  “Time has gone by so quickly this afternoon.” She gazed out across the mountain slope. “I doubt if we could make it back before dark, so I thought we’d just camp over there, against that cliff.”

  He tried to clear the haze of pain from his mind. He could have sworn she’d said they were about to camp. No Jacuzzi. No bed. Sleeping on the ground. How could he do that if he couldn’t even get off his horse by himself? Would she notice if he quietly stayed on his horse and slept in the saddle?

  “T.R.?”

  He focused on her with effort. “What?”

  “Are you okay?” She looked concerned.

  He felt his machismo slipping. “Depends on your definition.”

  “It has been a rather long ride, at that.”

  “Really? I hadn’t noticed.”

  “Follow me,” she said, a gentle note in her voice.

  Mikey followed. T.R. had lost the ability to guide Mikey several hours ago.

  “Stay there,” she said as she swung down and tied Maureen’s reins to an oak tree. “I’ll help.”

  Pride asserted itself. “I’m fine,” he insisted, and in one brave movement hoisted his leg over Mikey’s rump. Somebody yelled, and as he stumbled to the ground, he recognized his own cry of pain. Freddy caught him before he went all the way down and lowered him to a seat on a fallen tree.

  “Sit here,” she said. “I’ll set up camp.”

  As if he had any choice. He sat and glared at Mikey, instrument of his undoing. His thigh muscles throbbed, and the family jewels felt as if Mikey had kicked him dead center. “Some friend you are,” he grumbled at the horse. Mikey yawned, exposing big yellow teeth. “You might have warned me that an all-day ride would turn me into a eunuch.”

  “Maybe this will help,” Freddy said.

  He gazed up, bleary-eyed, at the opened flask she extended. “What is it, hemlock?”

  “Whiskey. I always carry some in my saddlebag. You never know when it’ll come in handy.”

  “Oh, yeah, for when you have to dig out a bullet after a battle with the rustlers, right?” he said sarcastically.

  She pulled the flask away. “If you’re going to be like that—”

  “No, please. I’d like some.” He accepted the flask and took a swig in what he hoped was a manly fashion. The whiskey was strong, at least eighty proof, and he welcomed its punch. He started to hand the flask back to her but she waved it away.

  “Keep it. I’ll fix us some dinner.”

  “I suppose you have to go out and shoot it first, this being the Wild West and all.”

  She stood eyeing him, her hands on her hips. “You do have a wisecracking streak in you, McGuinnes.”

  “It’s either that or hysteria. I thought I’d wisecrack for a while.”

  A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. “You told me you could ride.”

  He straightened as best he could. “I can,” he said with as much dignity as he could muster. “For brief periods.”

  She covered her mouth, where he suspected a smile had broken through. Then she coughed into her fist. “Have a few more pulls on that flask, and when you feel ready, take off your pants.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “So you can massage some Bag Balm into your thighs,” she said, barely swallowing a chuckle.

  “Bag Balm?”

  “Aren’t you feeling a bit—uh—chafed?”

  “What if I am?”

  “This is a lanolin-based product. We use it on the cows’ udders to keep them soft and—”

  “My God.”

  Tears of laughter brimmed in her eyes. “Believe me, it will help. And some liniment for your feet and knees will keep you from being so stiff in the morning.”

  His eyes narrowed as a suspicion worked its way through his pain-clouded brain. “How come you’re so well equipped for this emergency?”

  “Well—”

  “You knew this would happen, didn’t you?”

  “I suspected it might.”

  “Is this some sort of greenhorn ritual?”

  Her smile faded. “Not exactly. This land tests people, and that’s something you should know up front.”

  “You test people, too, don’t you?”

  “Maybe I do. But I meant what I said about appreciating the True Love with a ride like this. If you can manage to turn around, you might understand what I was talking about. The only way to really see it is by coming up here on horseback.”

  The whiskey had dulled the sharp edge of his agony, and with effort he eased his legs over the trunk so he was facing the opposite direction.

  The view stole his breath. The valley spread beneath them, honey gold in the setting sun. He picked out the U-shaped roofline of the ranch house with the pool inset like a chip of turquoise. Some distance away, the corrals resembled a tic-tac-toe design against the dun color of the bladed earth. Nearer, a flash of light indicated where the pond lay, its surface gilded by lingering sunbeams.

  Land. His land, and his partners’ land, if he wanted it enough. He’d never owned even a square foot of anything. He’d lived in leased apartments all his adult life and had never minded the lack of ownership. Until now. Surveying the wide sweep of the True Love’s holdings, a new hunger filled him.

  “Where’s the eastern boundary?” he asked, keeping his gaze fixed on the panorama.

  “We crossed it about a mile above the pond. We’re standing on Forest Service land, of which we lease a thousand acres.”

  “That much?”

  “We need it to run the herd we have.”

  “Do you bring Duane’s cattle up here, too?�
��

  Freddy chuckled and shook her head. “He’d never let those precious critters run around loose up here. They might lose an ounce or chip a hoof.”

  A hundred and sixty acres, T.R. thought. And a thousand more leased for grazing. It seemed an immense chunk to a guy who lived in nine-hundred-square feet of space in Manhattan. “It’s a lot of land,” he murmured.

  “Yes, although not compared to seventy years ago. Thaddeus and Clara were able to homestead twice as much, three hundred and twenty acres. But in the time since they died, pieces had to be sold off to take care of debts. Eb Whitlock bought a hundred acres twenty-five years ago.”

  “To think the ranch was twice this big once. I wish I could have seen it in the glory days of cattle ranching.”

  Freddy sighed. “I wish I could have, too.”

  They stood in silence as the crimson sun eased below a horizon trimmed with a rickrack of mountains. T.R. wondered if he’d ever watched the sun set before in all his thirty-five years. He’d had no idea what he’d been missing.

  3

  FOR AN EASTERNER, T.R. was handling himself pretty well, Freddy thought as she collected wood for a fire. She’d expected him to be in a nasty mood by now, but the whiskey and the sunset over the valley had mellowed him considerably. She’d left him on the log with the flask of whiskey while she completed the routine chores of setting up camp. In short order she’d unsaddled the horses, draped the pads over the saddles to dry and hobbled Mikey and Maureen in a nearby clearing where they could graze.

  The altitude and lack of sun was cooling the dry air quickly. Greenhorns like T.R. didn’t realize a drop of nearly forty degrees was common in the desert at night. He’d need that jacket he’d been reluctant to bring, and the warmth of a fire, as well. And the Bag Balm and liniment. Considering the lack of privacy the camp provided, she wondered if T.R. would have the nerve to take off his clothes and apply the remedies.

  As she crouched next to the fire and stirred the packet of dried stew into a small pot of water, the sound of shuffling footsteps announced his arrival behind her.