“I am totally jealous of your dark skin.”
Cree-Ryder nodded. “I’ve always thought white is a pathetic color for skin. I mean, people turn white when they die.”
“Yes, well.” Develyn glanced in the rearview mirror at the creases around her eyes. “We are forced to make up for our deficiencies with wit and charm.”
Cree-Ryder stared at her for a minute, then chuckled. “Yeah, right.”
A roar slung itself over the rise behind them and they jumped in the car and rolled up the windows, waiting for the vehicle to pass.
“It’s a Hummer,” Casey declared.
Develyn studied the vehicle in the mirror. “I think they are slowing down.”
“How do I roll down the window?”
“The button to your right.”
Develyn leaned over toward Casey and peered out as the electronic tinted window on the big black vehicle rolled lower. A broad-shouldered, square-jawed man with sunglasses leaned out.
“Do you ladies need some help?” he said with an accent.
Casey’s chin dropped. Her eyes widened. “Ugh … ugh … ugh … ugh…”
“No, we just stopped to look at something,” Develyn called out. “Thank you, anyway.”
“I suppose you are going to the barbecue,” he replied.
“You … you … you … you …” Cree-Ryder stammered.
Develyn nodded. I think I’ve seen him somewhere. “Yes, thank you. Perhaps we’ll see you there.”
“That would be nice. Does your friend have a speech impediment?”
Casey waved her finger as she choked. “I … I … I … I…”
“No, she’s usually quite loquacious.”
He peered over the frames of his dark glasses. “I know where there are some great speech coaches. They are all in southern California, but they can do wonders. I’ll give you a phone number at the barbecue.”
“Thank you very much,” Develyn replied.
As he rolled up his window, Develyn heard him say, “Maria, write that down, so I don’t forget.”
The Hummer and a stampede of accompanying dust roared north.
“That was … that was …” Cree-Ryder stammered. “That was…”
Develyn pulled back to the middle of the dirt road. “You are acting so strange.”
“That was … you know … you know … you know …” Casey gasped.
Develyn felt her eyes widen, and she slapped the steering wheel. “Isn’t he the governor of California?”
“Turn around,” Casey commanded.
“What?”
“I said, turn around. I want to go back. I’m not going to the barbecue. I acted like an idiot. I can’t show up. It’s too embarrassing.”
“That’s absurd. We are not turning back. I’m sure he sees that all the time.”
Casey folded her arms across her gold-sequined black T-shirt, and hugged herself. “I don’t handle ridicule well.”
“You think Arnold is going to get on a loudspeaker and announce that Casey Cree-Ryder is a stammering fool?”
“You aren’t going to turn around?” Casey demanded.
“No.”
“Then I’ll destroy the first cowboy who ridicules me.”
Develyn tasted the bitter yellow dust that oozed into the rig. “You were supposed to leave your guns and knives at home.”
“You didn’t say anything about a half-stick of dynamite.”
* * *
Cottonwood trees towered along both sides of the mile-long driveway up to the headquarters of the Quarter-Circle Diamond ranch. Red dirt prairie opened to the west. Cedar-lined rimrock framed the north. The distant Bighorn Mountains looked a dull purple. A three-slat wooden fence that covered eighty acres of irrigated pasture on the east had been turned into a temporary parking lot as they neared the structures. A thin cowboy with a flat-crowned hat and tall, stove-top black boots rode a red roan horse and signaled them where to park.
Develyn stepped out of the Jeep as the cowboy shouted back to the long one-story building, “She’s here!”
Like an echo off a cliff, they heard the shout repeated. “She’s here! She’s here! She’s here!”
Develyn slipped her arm into Casey’s. The two boot-and-jeans-wearing women giggled their way toward the road. “Are they talking about you?” Develyn teased.
“Yeah, right. It’s not me. It’s you they’re interested in.”
“Haven’t they ever seen an Indiana schoolteacher before?”
“Not one as cute as you.”
“Thank you, Miss Cree-Ryder, but I do look in a mirror from time to time. That’s not what I see.”
“Dev, what do you see when you look in a mirror?”
“Forty-five hard years, crow’s feet and dark rings under the eyes that can barely be covered up with foundation cream, and loose skin sagging under my chin. I see three slight pock marks left from a bad case of chicken pox when I was eight, and hair that would be half mousy brown and half gray if it were not for the magic of Clarice at the Hair Port in Crawfordsville … shall I go on?”
“No, but if I were you, I wouldn’t mention any of that to the cowboys.”
“I have no intention of doing so, and if you say a word about any of that, I will rip your lips off,” Develyn challenged.
Most of the gathering lounged around fifty eight-foot tables lined out in five long rows between the largest building and the fenced corral.
Develyn pointed at the big house. “I presume that is the Burdett residence.”
“That’s my guess.” Casey swaggered along ahead of Develyn. “I hear they put that screened porch clear around buildings in the old days so you could drag the beds out in the summertime. The long one-story building must be the bunk house, and that one at the end with three chimney stacks has to be the cook house.”
A man on a black horse trotted toward them. “Evenin’, Miss Dev.” He tipped his black cowboy hat, then nodded at Casey. “Welcome to the Quarter-Circle Diamond annual barbecue.”
“Hello, Cuban. Thank you for inviting me,” Develyn said.
“Inviting us,” Cree-Ryder corrected.
“You ain’t packin’, are you?”
“No, your manhood is safe,” Cree-Ryder replied.
“Casey.”
“Yes, Mother.”
Develyn surveyed the headquarters. “Cuban, how many people live back here? It’s like a town.”
“During the spring work and the fall gather, they carry two dozen punchers and a cook, plus Mom and Pop Gleason, the Old Man, and Lindsay. But in the off season, only six of us and the Gleasons are on steady. And most take off a couple of weeks at Christmas. Last year it was just me and Tiny here with the old man and Linds. They invited us into the big house, and we ate right off fine china and linen tablecloths. They are nice folks. I wouldn’t want to work for anyone else.”
“Looks like a big turnout tonight,” Develyn remarked.
“Yeah, did you know the Terminator is here?”
Casey waved toward the pasture with the parked rigs. “We saw his Hummer pass us as we came in.”
“He and the Old Man are up on the porch discussing politics, no doubt.”
Develyn studied the young cowboy’s face. “Cuban, Quint Burdett isn’t really that old.”
His eyes widened. “No, ma’am.”
“Then why do you call him the Old Man?”
“Miss Dev, I don’t rightly know, but the ranch owner is always called the Old Man, no matter what his age. Would you like me to introduce you around?”
“That would be nice,” Develyn replied.
“Climb up here behind me.” He motioned.
Develyn glanced over at Casey.
“Don’t worry abut me. I’ll check out the chow … and stay as far away from the front porch as I can.”
Cuban reached down and offered his han
d.
“I can just walk.”
“The ones I want to introduce you to are all on horseback,” he insisted.
* * *
Thirty minutes later, Develyn had met twenty ranch hands, toured their spotless bunkhouse, and visited the horse barn. She and Cuban rode back toward the crowd when she heard a signal clang. “That sounds like a school bell.”
“Almost,” Cuban reported. “It’s the supper bell. I reckon we can go get in line soon.”
“I still can’t believe there are this many people back here,” Develyn said.
“Sort of like half the state, ain’t it? We was expectin’ over four hundred people.”
Only in Wyoming do four hundred people seem like half the state … “Cuban, where can I wash up? I petted too many ponies not to clean up a little.”
“The ladies and children use the big house … the men use the bunkhouse. Go straight through the screen door, then the door straight behind it. Once inside, take the first door to your left.”
Develyn tried to brush horse hair off her jeans as she strolled toward the huge, square two-story house with screen porches on all four sides. People milled toward the south side, and the crowd noise muffled the western background music.
The wide stairs up to the porch were weather-beaten and worn, but the screen porch was more like a sunroom, furnished with beautiful overstuffed chaises and glass-top coffee tables.
The door to the house led to a hall just off the kitchen that gave off a warm sweet aroma like daybreak at a Krispy Kreme. The door to the left had a cold, round, old-fashioned brass doorknob. It was locked.
Hearing running water, Develyn gawked into the kitchen. There are large restaurants in Indiana that don’t have kitchens this size.
“Hi, there.”
Develyn glanced under hanging pans above a huge chopping block and spotted a younger lady, with a bright hot-pink sequined blouse and a white cowboy hat pulled down on her long wavy blonde hair. “Well, hi. I was just waiting to wash up.”
“Come over here and use one of the sinks.”
Develyn sauntered to the counter that sported three stainless steel sinks side-by-side. “Thank you. I’m going to take a wild guess and say you are Lindsay Burdett.”
The lady held out her hand. “How did you know?”
“Your father said you were a beautiful blonde.”
“Yes, and he said you had a smile and eyes just like Mama’s. I recognized you the moment you rode up with Cuban.”
“You know who I am?”
“You are Ms. Develyn Worrell. You teach fifth grade at Riverbend Elementary School in Crawfordsville, Indiana. Your favorite color is green, and your favorite movie is Gone with the Wind. You have two cats, named Josephine and Smoky, and like to eat at an Italian restaurant called Carrabbas Italian Grill in Southport.”
“How did you know all that?”
“I cheated,” Lindsay grinned. “I checked you out on the Internet and found your school Web site.”
“You checked me out?”
The blonde leaned her backside against the polished wood counter. “When Daddy came home with a big grin talking about some schoolteacher, I figured it was time to investigate.”
“Oh, dear, and that’s such an old picture of me.”
“You’ve lost a few pounds since then, I take it.”
“Yes … I’ve lost … well … more than pounds. Anyway, I’m flattered Quint mentioned me.”
“I like it when people call him Quint. Around here, he’s known as ‘Daddy’ to me. And ‘Mr. Burdett’ to everyone else.”
Develyn admired the immaculate kitchen. “I’ve enjoyed getting to visit with him. Where is he?”
Lindsay pointed out the window above the sinks. “Probably out front looking for you.”
Develyn dried her wet hands on the starched and pressed tea towel, then turned back toward the screen porch.
“No, no … come with me through the front room.” Lindsay swooped over and laced her arm into Develyn’s.
They promenaded through a polished oak doorway. “Oh, my. What a beautiful room,” Develyn said.
“Mama loved to decorate. She was always bringing home another piece of furniture.”
Develyn paused near a huge river-rock fireplace and gaped above the mantel. “Is that your mother?”
“Yes. Daddy calls her Miss Emily.”
“What a lovely lady.”
Lindsay bit her lip, then murmured, “Thank you, and she was a true lady. She was at home while attending the Metropolitan Opera … or the calving shed at 2:00 a.m. Absolutely nothing ever upset her. Talk about cool under pressure.”
“I wish I could have met her.”
“Everyone liked Mama.”
“There you two are!” Quint Burdett burst through the door. “Dev, I’m really glad you came tonight.”
“So am I. I’ve had a delightful talk with Linds. And met all your ranch hands.”
“They were all anxious to visit with you. But there are other guests to meet, and we need to get this supper started right.”
Quint offered his right arm to his daughter and his left to Develyn. They strolled onto the porch and down the stairs. A large gathering waited on the south lawn. Most of the men sported boots and cowboy hats. A few of the women wore prairie skirts, but the majority had on jeans and bright-colored blouses.
Quint led them to a microphone, then released the women.
“I didn’t know you’d have a live band,” Develyn whispered.
“Daddy brought them down from Calgary,” Lindsay reported. “They are quite good.”
Quint tapped on the mike, then waited for the feedback to die down. “Folks, can I have your attention?”
He paused for the crowd to grow quiet.
Develyn spotted a waving Casey Cree-Ryder standing next to Tiny, a huge cowboy who looked like he surely must have played nose guard for the Colts. She waved back.
“Ladies and gents, welcome to the annual Quarter-Circle Diamond ranch-hand barbecue. We have lots of special guests tonight. I hope they introduced themselves to you, because I’m not goin’ to. It was Miss Emily’s idea, and me and Linds are happy to keep it going. There are no introductions, no name tags … everyone is on equal ground at the ranch tonight. Among us are three governors, two senators, a congressman, and a niece of a U.S. president, to name a few. So visit with whomever you want, eat next to anyone who will have you, and dance with anyone who keeps from stepping on your toes. But before supper we should take a minute to thank the good Lord.”
He dropped his head. “Lord Jesus, there isn’t much in this world worth havin’ if it doesn’t come from you. So we thank you for the spring gather, for healthy calves, nutritious grass. We ask your blessing for all the folks with strong bodies and beautiful smiles who have gathered here. We are sinful, Lord, and deserve none of your blessings, but thanks to the cross of Jesus, we are given a chance. May we use it wisely, give you thanks for all things, including the best ranch food on earth. And all the cowboys said …”
There was a thunderous chorus of “Amen!”
“Now, there is another tradition that Miss Emily insisted on. This is a ranch hand barbecue, so all the ranch hands of the Quarter-Circle Diamond … and any other hands … get to be first in line. Sorry, governors, that’s the rules. It’s a salute to the men who do the work. So, the ranch hands and their guests go first.”
Cuban pushed his way to the front of the crowd, holding his hat in his hand. “Miss Dev, I’d be pleased to escort you to the line.”
She glanced up at Quint. “Cuban asked you first, Ms. Worrell. But I intend to occupy some of your time later on.”
“I look forward to it, Quint.”
Develyn took the arm of the beaming, bowlegged cowboy as they snaked their way through the crowd.
“What about Casey?” she asked.
Cuban p
aused and turned back. “Tiny, you escort Cree-Ryder!” he hollered.
“Is she packing guns or knives?” Tiny shouted back.
“No,” Develyn replied.
“What about scissors or pruning shears?” Tiny said.
The crowd roared as he took Cree-Ryder’s arm and led her behind Develyn and Cuban.
* * *
The sun dropped over the western horizon about 8:30 p.m., but twilight lingered until after 10:00 p.m.
Develyn lounged in the shadows of the Chinese lanterns near the corral fence and watched the dance. The floor consisted of plywood nailed to wooden pallets that were crushing a very nice lawn.
“Miss Dev, are you up to another dance?” the cowboy drawled.
“Cuban, I’m flattered you asked, but you cowboys have worn me out. These boots are fine in the saddle, but I’m afraid I’ve blistered my feet with about thirty dances.”
“Pull ’em off, Miss Dev.”
“I think I will.”
“Would you like a hand?”
“Oh, no,” Dev blushed. “I can…”
“Shoot, Miss Dev, it don’t mean nothin’ to help pull off boots.”
“You’re right. Yes, thank you.” She lifted her right foot toward the cowboy in the shadows.
Cuban grabbed her heel with one hand and the toe with the other, then slowly tugged off the boot.
“You’ve done that before, cowboy.”
“No, ma’am … I mean … it’s jist sometimes me and the boys need help with our boots and … I ain’t never … it ain’t that I …” He smoothly tugged off the other boot.
“Cuban, if it were daylight … I bet your face is red.”
“Shoot, ma’am, I reckon my ever’thin’ is red. Did you want to dance barefoot?”
“Not until every cowboy on that dance floor is barefoot.”
“Yes, ma’am. I understand.” Cuban tipped his cowboy hat and meandered back into the noisy crowd.
Develyn studied the shadows. She thought she saw Renny Slater dancing with Casey, but they were so close together she couldn’t tell. Lord, this is nice. I don’t know anyone but Casey and Quint and Renny, oh, and Cuban and Lindsay … but the others have made me feel so at home. These are good people whom I never knew existed until a few weeks ago.
Stephen Bly's Horse Dreams Trilogy: Memories of a Dirt Road, the Mustang Breaker, Wish I'd Known You Tears Ago Page 13
