One slender, ebony eyebrow arched up, and she looked heavenward. "And I'm Queen Victoria. Really, Mr.—"
"Bradford. Elliot Bradford."
"Well, Mr. Bradford," she went on, plucking at the mud-soaked skirt of her dress, "if you hadn't just saved my life—for which I am, by the way, everlastingly grateful—and if you didn't look like you'd already had a painful taste of your own medicine, I'd have had to slap you for handling me so rudely. But under the circumstances, I think we can both avoid any further embarrassment if you'll just help me up and let me be on my way."
"Of course. But... really," he protested, pulling her to her feet, "I am a doctor." As if on cue, a pair of brownish gray burros brayed loudly nearby and Elliot sent them a killing look.
Chase pushed his way through the perimeter of the crowd standing around the pair. "El, are you all ri—? Good God! Miss Harper. Is that you?"
The mud-covered woman in the lilac dress looked up at him, shaking off Elliot's hand. "I'm afraid so, Mr. Whitlaw," she replied, reaching up to pull the dagger-like pins from her hat.
Thunderstruck, Elliot stared back at Chase. "You know each other?"
"We, uh, met earlier today," Chase answered, handing Elliot his hat, which had fallen into the street. "Miss Nora Harper, meet Elliot Bradford. My friend."
"Yes." Nora forced a polite smile as she glanced up at Elliot. "We've already met."
It took several seconds for Elliot to snap his mouth shut and respond. "The pleasure is mine, Miss Harper. I mean, it wasn't exactly a pleasure for you, was it? But it was for me. No, no. What I mean to say... that is..."
Nora watched his discomfiture with growing amusement, and she pressed her lips together to keep from smiling.
"El always makes a good first impression," Chase interjected, making no attempt to hide his amusement.
"Nora!" the booming voice came from the midst of the onlookers. The appealing smile slipped from her face and she rolled her eyes. Jonas Harper pushed his way through the crowd.
"Nora! Are you all right? For God's sake, where's your head, girl? Strolling out into the street like that without looking. Thunderation! That's just like you. Frank MacDonald was over at the mercantile and said you were nearly run down."
"I didn't see the wagons coming, Jonas," Nora hastened to say. "It all happened so fast. I... I don't know what I was thinking about." Her eyes furtively scanned the muddy street for her fallen book. "I guess I just wasn't thinking. If it hadn't been for Mr. Bradford here—"
"You were to wait for me at the mercantile, Nora. What's gotten into you these days, wandering about with your head in the clouds? Now look at you." Harper clucked through his teeth and, for the first time, glanced at Elliot, who was equally covered with mud. "Bradford, you say?"
"Yes, I—" Elliot began, reaching out a hand to Harper.
"I'm grateful to you, Bradford, for your quick thinking," Harper said, cutting him off and giving his hand a quick shake. He drew a wad of bills from his vest pocket. "You saved my sister's life. I'd like to pay you for your trouble."
Elliot's face flattened with affront. "It was no trouble. Especially rescuing someone as lovely as your sister."
Beneath the layer of mud, Nora's cheeks flushed the color of a wild rose. Her gaze flicked up to meet Elliot's for a moment before she quickly averted her eyes.
Harper peeled off a few bills. "At least let me pay for the clothes you ruined."
"I said," Elliot repeated evenly, "it was no trouble, and I meant it." He turned his attention back at Nora. "It was a pleasure, Miss Harper. I only wish we could have met under kinder circumstances. Perhaps another time."
Nora lifted her chin and nodded at him. "Mr. Bradford. I..." She hesitated, saying more with her expressive eyes than Elliot sensed she would otherwise reveal. A small smile curved her mouth. "Thank you."
He nodded, swallowed hard and turned quickly before he lost his nerve. He'd never wanted to walk away from a woman less than he did this one. The turmoil in his chest was unfamiliar and, worse, disconcerting.
Harper's eyes narrowed as he watched Elliot go. He turned to Chase. "Whitlaw. I suppose I'll be seein' you out at Elizabeth's place when I come to call on her."
Chase didn't miss his implied meaning. "I imagine you will."
"Did you say you were from around here?" Harper asked pointedly.
"I didn't say." Chase replied with a cold look. "Is that required information around these parts?"
"No. I'm just looking out for Elizabeth's welfare, that's all. Woman all alone like she is... you can't be too careful."
"No. You can't, can you?" Chase tipped his hat to Nora. "Miss Harper." Without another word, he turned and headed off after Elliot.
Catching up with him at the other side of the street, Chase touched his arm. "You okay?"
Elliot glanced at him as they walked, putting distance between them and the Harpers. "I suppose that would require a qualified answer," he replied testily. "Pompous peacock. Imagine, trying to pay me for helping her."
Chase kept his expression purposefully casual. "Not that it would be of any interest to you, but Nora Harper comes out to Libby's place at least once a week"—Elliot stopped dead and stared at Chase—"and tutors the boy in his schoolwork."
As the possibilities flickered across Elliot's battered face, Chase handed him Nora's muddy book. He'd picked it up from the street and forgotten to return it. "'Course, her brother probably watches her like a hawk."
Elliot's expression faded slightly. "Probably." He grinned back at Chase. "Once a week you say?"
"At least."
Elliot fingered his bruised face with a mud-caked hand. "God, what an impression I must have made. She didn't believe me when I told her I was a doctor."
Chase laughed. "Would you have believed it?"
Elliot smiled, flipped the book into the air and caught it. "Nope."
"Well, one good thing came of it at any rate."
"What's that?"
Chase looked pointedly at Elliot's filthy clothes and grinned. "You look good and broken in."
* * *
The scent of damp, freshly turned earth drifted up to Libby. Pushing the hair out of her eyes for the hundredth time, she put her weight into the smooth, hardwood handle of the hoe. She plunged the metal blade between the rows of sprouting corn and pole beans, working out the inevitable weeds. Tad had worked behind her, yanking the unwanted plants, until minutes ago, when she'd sent him off, ostensibly to fetch some water to quench their thirst.
Libby shaded her eyes with her hand and smiled when she spotted him. He was splashing in the shallow creek that ran beneath the tall stand of Cottonwood. A boy needs time, she reasoned. Time to do boy-things, like splashing in the creek when he should be digging weeds, or daydreaming for a few minutes when there are a thousand-and-one chores to do.
She felt her heart tighten with love for her son and knew a pang of regret that his father would never see him this way. Lee would never swing Tad into his arms as he once had, or teach him the fine art of baiting a hook. Theirs was a lonely life for a boy. Sometimes, she wondered if she was doing the right thing in staying on the place, so far from others.
Of late, she had felt the lack of balance in their lives. That missing piece Lee had once filled. He had loved Tad in a way, Libby knew, he had never been able to love her—unconditionally. Still, she missed the friendship, the companionship, they'd once shared. But she didn't allow herself to dwell on it.
The midday sun beat down meltingly on her as she turned back to her task. She'd spent the morning working in the breaking pen with several of the mares they'd captured, gentling them to halters. After that, there had been the noon meal to prepare and then the miserable task of hauling water for the stock.
A trickle of perspiration coursed down between her breasts. She pulled a lace handkerchief from her trouser pocket and pressed it to the moisture on her face. Breaking the sandy, New Mexican soil was sweaty and often thankless work. There was good reason far
mers hadn't settled here, she mused, as the metal tip of the hoe bit once again into the rain-softened ground.
This land didn't give up its fruits without a fight. More than one of her vegetable crops had withered and died under the intense summer sun. Gardening requires patience, fortitude, and most of all, she thought wryly, hunger. The rain they'd had last night had helped.
If she played her cards right, this year's crop would see them through the winter if she had the time to put up enough of it. That, she decided, was the problem. Time. There never seemed to be enough of it.
"It's too hot out to be doing that now." The deep voice came from behind her.
Startled, Libby jerked her head up to see Chase Whitlaw atop his horse, not five feet away. A corona of mid-afternoon sun haloed behind him. Her heartbeat skipped in her chest like a flat stone skimming water. The brim of his hat shadowed his face. His posture in the saddle told of his training as a soldier, and she couldn't help but admire the powerful figure he cut. Her giddy smile of relief was instantaneous, unplanned.
"Mr. Whitlaw! I didn't hear you ride up." She brushed her damp, dirty hands against her trouser-covered thighs and, for the first time, noticed the other man who sat astride a sorrel gelding beside Chase.
"You always work out in the midday sun like this?" Chase asked.
"I'm used to it," she replied, wiping the beads of perspiration from her brow. "I'm glad to see you decided to come back."
Surprised, Chase leaned a forearm across the horn of his saddle. "Did you think I wouldn't? I told you I'd be back."
Libby remembered another man, another soldier, who'd spoken those same words to her. But the war had claimed him just as surely as the need to move on would claim this man. "Frankly, Mr. Whitlaw, I've found that it doesn't pay to count on anyone but oneself out here."
"A reasonable philosophy," he admitted. "But if we're going to work together, I'd appreciate it if you'd stop calling me Mr. Whitlaw. My name's Chase. Just Chase."
Dismounting, he met her gaze with an intensity she'd come to expect from him, though it made her insides feel like they were made of gelatin. A warm gust of sage-scented desert wind ruffled her hair, and she swayed against the handle of the hoe. Whether it was the heated wind or Chase Whitlaw that had her suddenly feeling light-headed and dizzy, she couldn't be sure. She watched his eyes roam over her sun-streaked hair before he spoke.
"This is a friend of mine, Elliot Bradford."
Libby glanced over at the stranger, who was sliding down off his horse as well. He was as dirty a cowhand as she'd ever laid eyes on, with dried streaks of mud from chin to boot tips. Beneath the equally dirty brown hat he wore, she caught sight of several nasty bruises on his face. As if he had had a run-in with a brick wall. Or something equally determined. Just what she needed on the Double Bar H, another hot-headed wrangler.
Elliot tipped his hat politely to her. "Mrs. Honeycutt. Chase said you were short of manpower and I'm looking for work." He brushed at the dried flakes of mud on his sleeve. "I'm afraid I'm not much on making first impressions today... but I hear you're looking for hands."
His educated manner of speech surprised her. Looking as he did, it was utterly incongruous, but she kept that observation to herself. She sized him up with an experienced eye and decided he had possibilities. "Are you any good with horses, Mr. Bradford?" she asked.
"Horses?" His sky blue eyes brightened a bit. "Why, yes. As a matter of fact, I was raised around them."
"Did Mr.—did Chase tell you about the wages here?"
"They're fine, ma'am. Whatever you think is fair."
"Fair and manageable are generally two different things, Mr. Bradford," she replied bluntly. "I'm afraid you'll have to settle for something in the middle. You can put your things in the bunkhouse over there." She pointed toward the low, adobe building near the corral. "That is, unless you have the same aversion to bunkhouses your friend has."
"No, ma'am. The bunkhouse will be just fine." Elliot sent Chase a covert, victorious wink.
Two riders kicked up a spray of sandy mud as they headed into the yard—Early and Trammel Bodine. As they pulled up beside them Chase noticed that their horses were lathered from the long ride. Bodine angled a sideways glance at Elliot, but his expression hardened when he saw Chase.
"What you doin' back here, bluebelly? Lose yer way to town again?"
Libby watched Chase's fists tighten ominously at his sides. Elliot Bradford glared at Bodine.
"I've hired both him and Mr. Bradford to work for me," Libby answered before either could respond to Bodine's challenge.
"Whoo-ee!" Bodine hooted like an out-of-place hog caller. He aimed a triumphant grin at Elliot. "Hey, I got it now! Couldn't place ya right off on account'a yer duds is different. But hell if'n you ain't the same greener I laid my fist to last night!"
Elliot narrowed his eyes and pushed the brim of his hat back on his brow. "Hell if I'm not," he agreed humorlessly, brushing at the caked mud on his chaps.
"You two have met then, I take it?" Libby inquired, looking back and forth between the two men.
"In a manner of speaking," Elliot confirmed dryly.
Bodine whistled through his teeth. "You're shore a fancy talker, greener. You smooth-talk them clothes off some cowpoke takin' a nap in a mudhole back in Santa Fe, did ya?" Bodine let out a sarcastic snort of laughter.
"Nah," Elliot retorted, straight-faced. "I just looked up your tailor, Bodine. He fixed me right up."
Early let out a loud guffaw while the smile slipped from Bodine's face.
"Did you find the mare?" Libby asked Early, pointedly changing the subject.
The older man doffed his hat and wiped a sleeve across his sweaty forehead. A sudden grimness ate at his expression. "Yes, ma'am. We found 'er. What's left of 'er that is."
"Coyotes?"
"They might'a picked at her bones, but they ain't what done kilt 'er."
Gooseflesh crawled on Libby's arms. She knew before he said it what he was going to tell her.
"It was Goliath, sure as I'm a-standin' here. Found his three-toed track near the carcass."
"No!" Libby flung the hoe to the ground with a thud. "Not again." Anger and stomach-wrenching fear battled for control within her, but she swallowed both emotions back. She'd learned long ago that giving in to either was a waste of time. She needed to be clearheaded about this. "Don't you go worryin' about ol' Goliath," Early said. "We'll git him."
Frowning, Elliot took a step toward them. "If you don't mind my asking, who—or what—is Goliath?"
"Griz," Bodine answered laconically. He un-cinched the drawstring on his bag of Bull Durham with his teeth and poured some onto a thin brown rolling paper.
"Griz?" Elliot repeated, slightly wide-eyed. "As in... grizzly bear?"
"Griz as in devil," Early answered, running an anxious hand over the graying stubble on his face. "Meanest sonofabi—" He glanced up at Libby guiltily and cut off his words. "Meaner'n a norther blowin' down a summer day. Ain't been see'd in nigh on two years, but once is more'n enough fer me, an ever'body else in these parts."
"Last time, he kilt two men who was trackin' him. Doubled back on 'em and got the jump 'fore they know'd what was up. That bahr is sly as ol' Satan hisself."
"And he killed five of our mares and three colts," Libby added. "That's a loss we can't afford again."
"Grizzlies usually come down this low?" Chase asked, glancing up at the jutting peaks of the nearby Sangre de Cristos.
"Goliath ain't no usual bahr," Early answered. "He don't follow no rules. He's a bad'n. His right front paw looks like it was half-blowed off by some fool's shotgun. You kin tell by his track he favors it."
"You found fresh sign?" Chase asked.
Early nodded. "We found fresh skat and some tracks leading up past Piñon Flat, two miles from the box canyon where we keep most of our stock. Sign's no more'n a few hours old. We left Miguel alone up yonder with the horses, but I'm thinkin' we need to double that lookout. Goliath gets
in with them horses we got penned there," Early warned, "and what he don't kill, will be scattered from here to the Cimarron."
Libby let out a harsh breath. "Early, you and Bodine best get yourselves some fresh mounts. I'll pack some food and be ready within the hour." Tromping through the freshly turned ground of the garden, she headed for the house.
"Whoa, there!" Early said, grabbing her arm. "Where you think yer goin'?"
"I'm going with you to find him."
"You can't be serious," Chase replied incredulously.
"Oh, yes she is," Bodine put in with a grin.
"Do you have a problem with that, Mr. Whitlaw?" she asked.
"As a matter of fact—" he began, but Early cut him off.
"Gol' dang it! I got a problem. I promised old Malachi when he was a-dyin' I'd look out fer ya. Tanglin' with Goliath ain't what he had in mind when he left this place to you."
"This is my place now, Early," she argued. "My land. My mare that devil killed. And God knows how many more will die before he's through. I can't sit back and let what happened two years ago happen again. We're all fighting against the same things here, Early. Don't ask me to stay tucked away at home like some pressed flower when things go down hard. I won't do it."
Early shook his head and ran a hand through his gray-streaked hair. "Tarnation, Libby. Sometimes you're the dadblamedest... orneriest female this side of the Canadian River. Ya know that?"
She grinned grudgingly in reply.
"I reckon Straw kin watch things here fer a day or so," Early concluded. "What about the boy?"
"Tad will leap at the chance to share the bunkhouse with Straw and help him with the chores," Libby answered. "He probably won't even notice I'm gone."
In the distance, she saw Tad and Straw—the aging white-haired wrangler who'd worked for the Honeycutts for the better part of his life—walking side by side, near the shallow part of the creek. Straw was pointing out the fine art of minnow-watching to the boy. Straw had taken Malachi's place and, to a smaller degree, Lee's in Tad's life. Though Straw had his faults, she was grateful for the time he spent with Tad. She knew her son would be in good hands while she was gone.
Chase the Fire Page 10
