Reluctant Enemies

by Vivian Vaughan

  “Sure miss Uncle Sog,” she commented while drying the last dish one night.

  “I hope he’ll be all right,” Kate worried. “Sog’s been with us since the beginning.”

  Priscilla wasn’t used to seeing her mother with sagging spirits; it worried her. That damned Haskel Land Grant Company. They were the ones to blame. For everything.

  By the end of the week all hands were tired of branding cattle, and Charlie was tired of watching from his easy chair. Kate took time out at intervals to keep him company. They watched from the veranda, reflecting on Priscilla’s stamina and enthusiasm.

  “I was wrong about her outgrowing the tomboy stage,” Kate commented once. “By nineteen, girls should want party dresses and beaux. But what does our daughter prefer? Boots and britches and the company of a horse.”

  “She’s a damned fine rancher.” Charlie’s voice was thick with emotion. “Good thing we never had another child. Priscilla would be hard put to share Spanish Creek.”

  “That’s why we needed another child.”

  “If it’d been a boy, woe be to him. Priscilla doesn’t like playing second fiddle even to me. She’d’ve locked horns with a brother, sure enough.”

  “But you’re proud of her, aren’t you, Charlie?”

  “More than she’ll ever know, sweetheart. More than she’ll ever know.”

  Late Saturday afternoon with only a few head left to brand, Priscilla roped a steer and dragged it to the branding arena. Since she was the best roper on the ranch, other than her pa and Uncle Crockett, the roping usually fell to her. Uncle Crockett bulldogged the animal to the ground, but, short of hands as they were, Priscilla had to dismount and help her mother and Red hold the larger animals, allowing Crockett to turn loose long enough to wield the branding iron.

  Not that Red Avery wasn’t physically up to the strenuous work; he was every bit as large a man as her pa. It was technique he lacked, and heart. No matter how many times they showed him how to do this chore or that, he couldn’t seem to learn.

  “Beats me how the man can be so dense,” her mother had mused. “With all that education, you’d think he could learn simple tasks like tightening his cinch and locking gates behind him.”

  “It isn’t brains, Avery’s lacking,” Pa had objected. “It’s heart.” He’d looked at Priscilla then, eyes flashing. “His heart’s in the wrong damned place.”

  But no matter where Red Avery’s heart was, since the cowboys quit and since he wasn’t inclined to leave Spanish Creek, they had to put him to work.

  Priscilla dallied the rope around the saddlehorn, then slid off her horse in one fluid motion, while Crockett grabbed the steer by the horns and threw it to the ground.

  By the time Priscilla reached them, her mother had hold of the steer’s neck, and Red was attempting to get a grip on its rump.

  “Get your knee on him, Red,” she encouraged. “Hold him. Don’t let the critter loose.” With her help, the three of them held down the struggling animal, while Crockett burned the ornate S brand of Spanish Creek Ranch into the hide of its left flank and cropped its right ear with an inverted V.

  Finished, Crockett jumped back. “Let ’im up.” He returned the branding iron to the fire, which wafted piñon smoke across the dusty corral. Kate and Priscilla rose simultaneously; the steer lumbered to its feet.

  “Take the rope off his neck, Red.” Priscilla headed for her horse, where she unhitched the other end of the same rope from her saddlehorn. When she attempted to coil it, however, it flew through her hands.

  “Catch that rope, Red,” she shouted. By the time the archaeologist brought his attention back to the corral, the steer had run him down in the packed soil.

  Less than worthless in a corral, Priscilla muttered, dusting her bottom absently with one hand, while she ran after the rope the steer dragged behind him in his race for freedom. Catching up, she reached for the rope, only to have a stranger step from the shade of a piñon tree. He bull-dogged the running steer, pinning its shoulders to the ground.

  Priscilla stood above steer and man, fists on hips. For a long moment, her brain refused to accept the truth.

  “What do I do now?” Will Radnor questioned innocently, as though his presence in a cow pen were an everyday occurrence.

  Priscilla’s eyes darted to his feet. No thin-soled greenhorn footgear now, but a pair of Santa Fé’s finest handmade boots. She took in his attire—leather britches, chambray shirt, leather vest. The transformation took her breath, until she remembered who he was. “Where the hell did you come from?”

  “I can’t hold him down all day, Jake. Tell me what to do.”

  Priscilla knelt, slipped the noose from around the steer’s neck and stood, coiling her rope absently. “Go to hell.”

  Will jumped to his feet. Together they watched the steer race around the end of the corral, headed for the herd. “You even curse like a man.”

  “What’re you doing here?”

  “If I came for a taste of Western hospitality, I’d be up a creek. Thought sure I’d at least be offered a cold drink of water.”

  “You certainly shall be,” Kate replied from Priscilla’s shoulder. “Come up to the house, Mr.—”

  “We aren’t finished branding, Mama.” Priscilla tossed Will a nod of dismissal. “Let’s get back to work.” She strode to her horse and stepped in the saddle. But when she dragged the next steer to the branding arena, Will Radnor was there. And somehow he managed to make himself useful. He helped Kate and Red hold the animal, then slipped the noose off its neck like Priscilla had done earlier and tossed it to her. Through the remainder of the afternoon, Will proved a respectable ranch hand, and although she couldn’t understand why—they certainly needed the help—Priscilla’s fury mounted.

  When the last steer had been branded and turned out to pasture, Priscilla headed for the barn, leading her horse. For some strange reason, she was infuriated to find Will Radnor looking so much like he belonged in this country. Her country. And acting like it. When in fact he had come from the East and worked for the enemy.

  “Miss McCain?”

  Priscilla stopped with her back to him.

  “I’ve come to discuss a client.”

  Without facing him, she shrugged and started to walk away.

  “May we talk somewhere?”

  Glancing to the far end of the corral, Priscilla saw her mother and Red staring at the two of them. “Come on,” she told Will. “I have to put Sargeant away.” To her mother, she called, “Be along in a minute, Mama.”

  Will followed Priscilla to the watering trough where they stood silently while the pinto cutting horse drank. Finally she said, “Let me speak frankly, Mr. Radnor. No one who works for the Haskels is welcome on Spanish Creek. I would advise you to leave while I’m the only person here who knows who you are.” She looked at him then—a mistake, for standing there in his leather and chambray, with dust on his face, and a new Stetson shoved back on his head of thick brown hair, he took her breath away for the second time today.

  She’d never experienced such an embarrassing reaction to a man. “Outfit yourself like a cowboy if you want, but that won’t change your stripes.”

  “My stripes, Miss McCain?”

  “Take your pick. The Haskel Land Grant Company hires guns and crooked lawyers. Which are you?”

  “Neither. I’m an honest lawyer and a damned good one.” He sought her gaze and held it steady. After a long moment he added with a wry grin, “I acknowledge being an expert shot, but my gun isn’t for hire.”

  Discomfited, Priscilla dropped her gaze. “Then why did you come to Santa Fé?”

  He scanned the late afternoon sky. “My health?”

  She glanced around at that. Their eyes met again. She grinned. His lips tipped briefly before his expression sobered and he turned away. That surprised her.

  He followed her into the barn. They walked the distance without speaking. She opened both halves of the heavy door to the stall and led Sargeant i
nside. Will remained in the threshold, where he grasped the overhead crossbar with both hands, stretching his arms, lengthening his already lanky torso.

  “Why do they call you Jake?”

  She flipped the stirrup over her saddle seat and tugged at the cinch, ignoring him as best she could. “I told them to.”

  “Does everyone do everything you tell them to?”

  She ignored him.

  Finally he offered, “Haskel Land Grant accounts are handled by the firm’s senior partners. As the new member, I’m given smaller fish. Today the judge appointed me to defend a horse thief called Wounded Eagle.”

  Priscilla caught her breath. “Joaquín?”

  “They called him Wounded Eagle. He won’t talk to me.”

  “His name is Joaquín. He’s half Apache, half…” Her gaze drifted toward the house. “Why did you come here?”

  “Lady in town said your father—”

  “What lady?”

  “Miss Laredo, I think.”

  “You think? Jessie Laredo doesn’t leave any man in doubt. It looks like you’re a greenhorn in more ways than one.”

  Before Will could counter, Priscilla lit into him again. “I know what she told you. It’s what everybody thinks. But it’s a lie.”

  Will stepped into the stall. He noted the fury in her blue eyes, recalled how they sparkled when she laughed. He wondered if they burned blue fire when she made love.

  If she made love. This was one tough hombre, as they said out here. “I didn’t come to slap a paternity charge on your father, Miss McCain. Frankly, it doesn’t matter to me whether he fathered Wounded Eagle or not. I need to talk to someone close to my client. Find out how I can go about defending a man who refuses to speak to me.”

  When Priscilla lifted the saddle from the horse’s back, Will removed the saddle blanket and held it until she reached for it.

  “Thanks,” she mumbled. By the time she draped the blanket over the stall, Will had removed the bridle and held that for her, too.

  Together they rubbed down the sweating animal. Finally curiosity got the best of her. “Where’d you learn to bulldog?”

  “Bulldog? What’s that?”

  She raised astonished eyes to his. “Whatever city folks call throwing a steer.”

  “Throwing a steer?” Will’s expression registered recognition. “Oh, that. I just watched the older man. When I saw you in trouble, I thought I’d lend a hand.”

  “I was not in trouble.”

  “That cow was getting away from you.”

  “It wasn’t a cow, it was a steer. And I would’ve caught it.”

  “What’s a steer?”

  Priscilla rolled her eyes. “If you think those boots make you a cowboy—”

  “I never claimed to be a cowboy. I thought I might not stand out like a lamb licker at the Cowboy Christmas Ball if I dressed like everyone else.”

  She grinned, somehow pleased that she’d had something to do with his transformation. “Until they hear you talk,” she quipped.

  “What’s wrong with the way I talk?”

  “It isn’t so much the way you talk, as the stupid things you say.”

  He cocked his head, pursed his lips, and studied her, amused. He’d never met a lady like her. If you could call her a lady.

  “Well, anyhow, thanks for lending a hand,” she added. “You saved us a little time out there.”

  He followed her outside into the growing dusk. The air hung heavy with piñon smoke from the branding fire, blended with the sweet scent of pine. The sun was beginning to set. It streaked the sky with fiery colors, reminding Will of the blankets Indian women sold around the plaza in Santa Fé.

  “What can you tell me about this Wounded Eagle…” He held up a hand to ward off her viperous tongue. “Except his parentage. I’m not interested in that. I want to know why he won’t talk to me.”

  “For starters you might call him Joaquín.”

  “If that’s important—”

  “It is. An animal name dishonors an Apache. The bigots in Santa Fé call Joaquín, Wounded Eagle, because…because of his birth.”

  “Joaquín, it is. What else?”

  They walked through the corral. She closed and latched the gate behind them. “Whose horse did he steal?”

  “There you go jumping to conclusions again, Miss McCain. You shouldn’t assume he’s guilty. Unless he has a history of—”

  “He doesn’t.”

  “I don’t know who the horses belonged to. They claim he was riding with Billy the Kid’s gang. The others got away. He got caught.”

  “Joaquín doesn’t ride with Billy the Kid. He probably knows him. But he doesn’t ride with him.”

  “What’s his problem, then?”

  She walked with her hands stuck in her back pockets. Will couldn’t help noticing how that stance stretched her shirt across her bosom, revealing the woman beneath the tough exterior.

  “His problem?” she was asking. “Like everyone else, Mr. Radnor, Joaquín wants Spanish Creek Ranch.”

  Reaching swiftly, Will grabbed her by an upper arm and drew her to a halt. She glared up at him, silent, hostile.

  “Did anyone ever tell you, you have a chip on your shoulder the size of a redwood tree?”

  “We don’t have redwood trees in New Mexico.” She jerked to free her arm, but he held on. Inside, her stomach tumbled and she wondered what Will Radnor really wanted at Spanish Creek. She doubted he wanted the ranch itself. If he did, she figured this was one man who’d be honest enough to admit it straight out.

  “And I don’t have a chip on my shoulder, Mr. Radnor. I just don’t like consorting with the enemy. Especially when he makes a habit of ingratiating himself with me.”

  “I don’t ingratiate myself with anyone, Miss McCain. If you people can’t accept a helping hand without biting it off, this isn’t the kind of place it’s made out to be.”

  Incensed, she tried again to free her arm. This time he turned her loose.

  “Do you think I could speak with your father?”

  “About Joaquín?”

  He held her gaze, steady, warming her beneath the magenta-streaked sky, before he looked away toward the adobe house.

  The house glowed in the last rays of the day’s sun. Her mother had lighted inside lamps and yellow light streamed from the deep-set windows. Priscilla was suddenly glad Will Radnor had come. Glad he could see her beautiful home. Glad he had proved himself a fair hand in the corral.

  When she glanced back to him, he was staring at her. Their gazes locked again, probing. “Among other things,” he replied.

  Will knew exactly what he wanted at this moment, and it had nothing to do with Joaquín or even with her father. He wanted to kiss her. Right here in front of her magnificent home, beneath the fiery magenta sky, surrounded by nature’s majestic mountains. Even knowing she was Charlie McCain’s daughter. That was the hell of it. Even knowing she was Charlie McCain’s daughter, he was attracted to her, like lightning to dry wood. He turned back to the house.

  His voice, as low and dusky as the evening sky, sped along Priscilla’s spine. It wasn’t the summer evening that warmed her now; she sensed as much. It was the heat in Will Radnor’s brown eyes. And the unwanted feelings of camaraderie she felt toward this man who worked for the enemy.

  “If he isn’t in bed,” she agreed at length. “Come on.” When they approached the house, she explained. “Pa was wounded a few weeks back in a skirmish with the Haskel bunch. They drove off the cattle we were contracted to deliver to Fort Stanton.”

  “For what purpose?”

  “So we couldn’t fulfill our contract, Mr. Radnor. I told you not to ask stupid questions. You should be aware that your employers are determined to take this land, by court order or by running us off. Stand forewarned. They will not succeed.”

  Will followed her up the tile steps leading to the sprawling adobe. On the veranda a gentle breeze cooled his rattled senses. But when they reached the wooden entranc
e doors, he stopped short at the most incongruous sight he had encountered yet in this strange land: A full suit of Spanish armor stood guard beneath the yellow lantern light, one hand extended as in greeting.

  Bowing in pantomime, Will gripped the metal gauntlet. He nodded a silent greeting to the headless helmet. Cold steel though it was, he suspected this was the warmest welcome a Radnor was likely to receive at Spanish Creek Ranch.

  Then Priscilla’s mother opened the door with a broad smile. “I’m Kate McCain. Come in, Mr.…uh…”

  Will quickly doffed his Stetson to the woman who only a short time before had been scrambling around the cow pen in grimy britches. She had changed into a loose white cotton gown trimmed with white embroidery. Her golden hair was braided in one long heavy braid, the same as her daughter’s. Although the gold in Mrs. McCain’s hair had lost some of its color with time, Will realized that Priscilla must be a reflection of her mother in earlier years. Even now Kate McCain was an extraordinarily handsome woman.

  Except her eyes were hazel, not blue.

  Priscilla led the way into the spacious foyer without pausing to introduce Will. “Where’s Pa?”

  “In the courtyard, darling.”

  “Come on.” She motioned toward Will as though he had contracted a plague of some sort. Greenhornitis, he suspected. “He wants to meet Pa.”

  Priscilla strode across the broad expanse of tiled floor. Will and her mother kept pace to either side. “Joaquín’s in jail, Mama. Accused of horse theft.”

  “Oh, dear, no,” Kate moaned.

  They entered a large enclosed courtyard, which was ringed on three sides by a sweeping veranda. Lighted lanterns hung from vigas, transforming the desert foliage into shapely silhouettes that undulated in the evening breeze like sensuous black fingers caressing the pale adobe walls. Will recalled telling Priscilla that Santa Fé seemed like a foreign country. Well, the McCains’ home was an unexpected oasis in the middle of a wilderness.