by Janet Dailey
“Thanks, Major.”
Diana wondered if Holt Mallory was thanking him for the job or for smoothing over the awkward moment. It didn’t really matter which it was. She turned with her father and walked to the main house.
They were nearly to the porch before she remarked, “You never mentioned that you had hired a new man.”
“Didn’t I?” he replied absently, his thoughts elsewhere. “It must have slipped my mind.”
“He doesn’t want the boy.”
The Major stopped to stare, now giving her his undivided attention. “What put that idea in your head?”
“Guy told me.”
“The two of you did quite a bit of talking on that short walk.”
“Enough to know that man is virtually a stranger to him. Guy never saw him until his mother died. He deserted both of them when Guy was just a baby.”
“It isn’t quite as cut and dried as that, Diana. Guy’s parents were barely sixteen when they married. It was one of those ‘have to’ things. They were simply too young, and like a lot of teen-aged couples, they couldn’t make it work. After they separated, his wife left Arizona with the baby. Holt never heard from her again until her parents notified him of her death. It wasn’t a case of not wanting to see his son. Holt didn’t know where he was.”
It sounded plausible, but Diana preferred Guy’s version. “I don’t like him,” she stated.
The Major frowned. “It isn’t like you to make snap judgments.”
“I don’t like him,” she repeated.
“You’ll change your mind. He’s excellent with horses and has a working knowledge of cattle. More than that, he has management potential.”
“Management? Why is that so special?”
“I’m not getting any younger. In a few years, I’m going to need somebody to run the ranch, take some of the load off my aging shoulders. Holt is going to need a few more years of seasoning. If my instincts haven’t failed me, he’s going to be a good leader someday.”
Diana made no comment. She knew that if she had been a boy, the Major would have been thinking about turning the ranch operation over to her in a few years instead of to a stranger. The knowledge hurt. The summer ahead didn’t look as pleasant as it had before Holt Mallory arrived.
Entering the house a step behind her father, she followed him through the living room to the connected dining room. The furnishings in the house were austerely male, arranged in precise order. Everything was comfortable, yet very utilitarian. The table was set for morning coffee, a daily routine in the Somers’ house.
As the Major pulled out a chair at the head of the table, the housekeeper came from the kitchen carrying a pot of freshly brewed coffee and a plate of homemade doughnuts. Sophie Miller was a gaunt, unprepossessing woman. Although she was only in her late forties, her brown hair was salted with gray and severely styled in a crown of braids atop her head. Widowed for many years and childless, she had lived on the ranch for the last six years as the Major’s housekeeper. She was a drab person, doing her work without ever drawing attention to herself.
Diana sat in the chair to the right of her father. Ever since she could remember, she had always joined him in this morning break, actually drinking coffee from the time she was eight. Father and daughter shared almost everything together. This was not one of the times that Diana sat back and enjoyed it. She was still disturbed that the Major had failed to inform her that he had hired a new man. She was also bothered by the way he had so casually dismissed her dislike of this Holt Mallory.
Coffee was steaming from the Major’s cup as Sophie filled the cup in front of Diana. The Major had unfolded his napkin and laid it across his creased trousers. He glanced at the plate of doughnuts and smiled at Diana.
“Chocolate, your favorite, Diana,” he commented and received a disinterested nod from her. “Sophie made them especially for you.”
The quietly prompting statement shook Diana out of her silent contemplation. “Thanks, Sophie.” She tossed the words indifferently over her shoulder, and the housekeeper smiled briefly in return, having learned not to expect more from Diana.
To Diana, Sophie was merely one of a series of housekeepers who had gone in and out of her life. Sophie had simply lasted longer than the others. Most of them hadn’t liked the isolation of the ranch since it prevented them from seeing family and friends. Sophie had no family and, apparently, few friends, so the job suited her.
Diana had no interest in the housekeepers. Her life centered around the Major. The housekeepers were faceless souls who worked for him. She had never formed an attachment to any of them. There was only her father. What interested him interested her. At the present, he had shown an uncommon interest in the new ranch hand. And Diana did not like it.
Over the next few weeks, her first impression of Holt Mallory didn’t change. He was polite to her. He treated her with the respect due a boss’s daughter, yet never with the indulgent affection the other ranch hands expressed. To the others, she might be the darling, the pet of the ranch, but not to him.
As for Guy, he had virtually become her shadow, whether Diana liked it or not. Most of the time she didn’t, although there were moments when his almost worshipful attitude soothed her ego.
This was not one of those moments. As she walked swiftly to the stud pens with Guy trailing at her heels, she fervently wished he would get lost—permanently.
“Can’t I ride with you, please?” He repeated the request she had turned down seconds ago. “I’m getting good. You said so.”
“No! I’m going to exercise the stallions.” Something she did regularly in the arena, a safe distance from the broodmares and potential trouble. “I’ve told you and told you that you can’t ride your mare with me when I’m on one of the studs.”
“Why not?”
Diana flashed him an irritated look. “Hasn’t your father told you anything about the birds and the bees?”
Guy blushed furiously and fell silent, but he never left her side. At the pen, he peered through the rails as Diana climbed over the top, a bridle draped over her shoulder. The bay stallion danced to her, knowing the routine and eager to stretch his legs.
“If you want to make yourself useful, Guy”—there was a faintly acid ring to her voice as she slipped the bit into the stallion’s mouth—“go get the saddle out of the tack room for me while I work Shetan on the lounge line.”
“Okay.” He darted off, eager to do her bidding.
When he returned, it was without the saddle and not alone. Diana glanced around to see Holt Mallory walking behind his white-faced son. She flicked him a dismissing look and turned to Guy.
“I thought I told you to bring the saddle.”
“I—“
“What do you think you are doing, Miss Somers?”
There was something in the quiet way he put the question that set her teeth on edge. She stopped the circling bay cantering around her on the lounge line and faced him. She was every inch the boss’s daughter looking at a mere hired hand.
“I don’t see that it’s any of your business.”
“Guy tells me you are planning to ride that stallion.”
“I am.”
“Does the Major know?”
“Of course, he knows,” Diana retorted indignantly.
“He must be out of his mind to let a slip of a girl like you—”
He never had a chance to complete the sentence, as Diana broke in angrily: “I am a better rider than practically everyone on this ranch, maybe in the county.”
“That isn’t saying much.” He opened the corral gate and stepped through, latching it behind him. “Hand me an end of the lounge line.”
“Why?” She eyed him warily.
“Call it a test,” he answered. Diana sensed a challenge and couldn’t refuse. She handed the end to him and he stepped back. Less than three feet separated them. “Hold on,” Holt instructed. “Don’t let me pull it out of your hands.”
Wrapping the long l
eather lead around his hand, he gave a steady pull. Diana dug her heels into the ground and resisted, successfully. A sudden, hard yank sent her stumbling forward into his chest. His hands closed around her shoulders to steady her, his superior strength jolting her like a cattle prod. Diana jerked away.
“That was a dirty trick,” she accused. “It doesn’t prove anything.”
“Doesn’t it?” His mouth quirked in a taunting, humorless smile. “If that stallion took a notion, he could jerk the reins right out of your hands, the same as I did.”
“Shetan is a well-trained horse,” Diana defended. “And I never ride him around the mares, only in the arena, and only after I’ve worked him a bit on the ground. I am perfectly capable of controlling him.”
“Even the best-trained horse can rebel, if only for a few seconds. With someone like you on his back, that’s all the time it would take.”
“I’ve been riding these stallions for years.” Which was stretching the truth quite a bit.
“I don’t care what you’ve been doing. While I’m around, you aren’t going to,” he informed her.
“You’re nothing but hired help,” Diana declared with haughty scorn. “You can’t tell me what to do.”
“I just did.”
“Holt has a good point.” At the sound of a third voice joining the heated conversation, Diana spun on her heel to see the Major standing at the corral gate. “I think it would be best if you don’t exercise the stallions anymore, Diana. I’ve had misgivings about it from the beginning. There are times when you have to manhandle even the best-trained horse. And you couldn’t do it.”
Every nerve in her body screamed in protest, but not a sound passed from her lips. She shoved the line into Holt’s hands and walked rigidly out of the corral. Her eyes were dry, but there was an enormous lump in her throat. She thought she would choke on it.
Diana walked blindly, not caring where she was going, heading into the open spaces beyond the corrals. It was several minutes before she heard someone hurrying along behind her. Diana glanced back and saw Guy.
“If you still want to ride,” he began hesitantly as she finally acknowledged his presence.
All the pent-up anger suddenly exploded. “You dumb little kid! This is all your fault!” she accused. “Why did you have to open up your mouth and tell your stupid father what I was doing?”
His small face whitened. “I didn’t mean to, honest.”
“I didn’t mean to,” Diana repeated in sarcastic mimicry. “I thought you didn’t like your father, so what were you doing talking to him about me?”
“I don’t like him,” Guy insisted, “but he asked me what I was doing with your saddle and—”
“—you told him,” she finished. “You said you wanted to be my friend, but you are no friend of mine. Go away and leave me alone. I don’t want you around! You’re nothing but a pest!”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.” Tears filled his eyes as he stared at the ground, his chin quivering. He began sniffling, seemingly unable to move.
Diana was still glaring at him with contempt when the tears began spilling over his pale lashes, streaming down his cheeks. His small hand couldn’t stem the flow. She was suddenly uncomfortable. She couldn’t remember the last time she had seen anyone cry. Diana didn’t know how to handle it.
“Stop being a cry-baby,” she muttered, but that only seemed to increase the volume of tears, despite Guy’s valiant attempt to obey. “Come on. Stop it.” Impatience and unease brought a frown. Diana turned partially away, not wanting to watch him cry. “Forget what I said. It wasn’t your fault. It was your father making trouble, trying to worm his way into the Major’s favor by pretending he was concerned that I might get hurt. He doesn’t give a damn about you or me.”
“Then you’re not mad at me?” Guy asked for more assurance.
“I’m just mad in general.” She gave him a sidelong look and grudgingly extended a peace offering. “I’m going to the irrigation pond to cool off. Do you want to come along?”
He hesitated. “I don’t have my trunks on.”
“So?” Diana lifted her shoulders in an uncaring shrug. “Neither do I. Do you want to come along or not?”
He accepted eagerly, scrubbing the last traces of tears from his face. Now and then he sniffled at his runny nose as he walked beside her to the pond.
The summer went from bad to worse as far as Diana was concerned. More and more of her activities were curtailed. In previous summers every minute of the day was filled with things to do. Now she was fighting boredom.
Kicking a rock out of her path, Diana shoved her hands into the rear pockets of her Levi’s® and glanced impatiently around the ranch yard. Surely there was something to do. She breathed out a disgusted sigh. There was always Guy.
Diana changed her direction and walked to the fourplex. The door to the last unit was open. Not bothering to knock on the screen door, she walked in and paused at the sight of Holt Mallory standing at the kitchen sink shirtless, halted in the act of wiping his face dry with a towel.
“It’s polite to knock before entering someone’s home.” He finished wiping his face and hands.
“I’m looking for Guy. Where is he?” Resentment glittered darkly in her blue eyes.
“Somewhere outside.”
As he turned to hang up the towel, Diana’s eyes widened curiously. A network of scars lined the tanned flesh of his back. “How did you get those marks on your back?” she demanded.
There was an instant’s hesitation before Holt reached for his shirt. “I don’t remember.”
“Somebody beat you. You wouldn’t forget a thing like that,” Diana accused.
He looked at her for a long, hard moment. “You can forget anything if you try.” His attention became absorbed in buttoning his shirt. “You said you were looking for Guy; he’s outside.”
Diana eyed him with curious speculation, but knew he would tell her no more. Finally she turned and left, going in search of Guy. But she didn’t let the matter drop. She revived it at lunch with the Major.
“Did you know Holt Mallory had scars all over his back? It looks like somebody used a whip on him.” She offered it into the conversation with seemingly idle interest.
The Major’s look was swift and piercing. “Really?” His response was deliberately bland. “Pass the salt.”
“How did he get them?” Diana set the salt and pepper near his plate.
“Did you ask Holt?”
“Yes.”
“What did he tell you?”
“He said he couldn’t remember. Of course, it’s a lie.” She dismissed the answer with an infinitesimal shrug of her shoulders. “How did he get them, Major? Was he in prison before he came here?”
“I don’t believe they whip people in prison anymore, Diana,” he replied in an indulgently dry tone.
“Maybe not anymore, but . . . how did he get them?”
“I really can’t tell you, Diana.” He said it as if he didn’t know, yet Diana suspected that he did. He simply wasn’t going to tell her. He had always told her everything. There had never been any secrets between them. It hurt, but it didn’t stop her from fantasizing about how Holt had acquired the scars, even if she didn’t bring the subject up again.
With summer’s end came the fall round-up. It was one of Diana’s favorite times. Riding for long hours, miles from the ranch yard, sleeping beside a campfire under a canopy of stars, it was adventurous and exciting out in the wilds. There was always so much to see, mule deer grazing, an occasional glimpse of a desert bighorn, or a fleeing band of wild horses skylined on the crest of a hill.
By the golden light of dawn, Diana retightened the cinch of her saddle, a bedroll tied neatly behind the cantle. Everywhere there was movement, others quietly and efficiently preparing for the start of the annual event. All the faces were familiar. Year round, the ranch usually employed an average of eighteen men on a regular basis, but extras were hired during round-ups or haying time.
They were generally locals. It was rare for the Major to hire strangers for part-time help.
Over the seat of her saddle, Diana saw Holt Mallory approaching with an air of being in command of the operation. What had begun as instant dislike on his arrival at the ranch had magnified over the last few months. It smoldered in the look Diana gave him. There was a hesitation in his firm stride when his cool gray eyes saw her. They flicked from her to the saddled horses and bedroll before glancing thoughtfully away.
When Diana saw him stop to speak to the Major, her lips thinned into an unpleasant line. Her pulse started hammering in ominous premonition as she saw them both glance at her. She didn’t like the way the Major was looking at her, nor the short nod he gave to Holt after a relatively lengthy exchange. When the Major started walking toward her, Diana pretended not to notice, looping the reins over the horse’s neck and preparing to mount.
“Diana.” His crisp voice called for her attention.
Damn! she cursed beneath her breath, but pivoted to face him. She adopted an expression of bland unconcern while an inner sense warned her in advance what his next words would be.
“You’ll be staying home this year, Diana.” Her father came straight to the point.
“I’ve been going on the fall round-ups since I was eight years old. Besides, you need all the help you can get. And you know I can ride and rope with the best of them.”
“The work is too hard for a young girl like you.”
“I’ve never complained,” Diana reminded him. “I don’t mind the dust and the heat and the sore muscles.”
“I know you don’t complain.” Major Somers had always spoken to her as an adult. His attitude had always been very honest and frank. This time was no different. “You are growing up and filling out, Diana. It isn’t proper anymore for you to be sleeping out for several nights in the company of men.”
Diana replied with equal candor. “You aren’t suggesting one of the boys might try to molest me, are you? They are all my friends.” Except Holt Mallory. “It’s ridiculous. Besides, you’ll be along.”
