by BJ James
As her silver gaze clouded with the burden of old memories, he saw only guilt for her own shortcomings in her quest to be both daughter and son. The innocent clay of a strong-willed mother and a despotic father. A tough kid, who had no concept of how tough she was, who loved both mother and father without reservation.
“Nine,” he murmured, seeing the child she’d been in the woman she’d become. “With the makings of a lady a man couldn’t forget, even then.”
Something flickered in her eyes, a response too quick, too vital, escaped her guarded control. Vulnerability beneath the iron, stirring needs and desires he hadn’t known in too long to remember.
“You were right, the street isn’t the place for this.” His voice was hoarse, little more than a whisper. Silenced for a moment, the thudding rhythm of the headache returned with a vengeance. Backing away, he smiled and touched the brim of his hat with one finger. A rogue’s salute, a rogue’s pale lipped smile.
“We’ll meet again, Savannah.”
He was a half-dozen strides away before she realized he was really leaving. “Wait!” she called after him. “Mr. Cody!”
He didn’t turn, didn’t acknowledge her.
“If you would just...” Her voice faltered. Pleading came hard to a Benedict, and she wouldn’t. Not for anything. Not even for her father. Never with this arrogant man.
Bitterly, she watched his strategic retreat, only just beginning to wonder if it were more than strategic. Though his back was straight, his head up and his shoulders back, there was something unnatural about his step. The easy cowboy gait was gone. He moved as if he were walking on ice—a man on shifting ground, desperately unsure of his footing.
He’d been pale, the pallor of weathered skin locked away from the sun for too long. Hospital pallor that turned even paler. He’d dismissed it as nothing, an irritation, a stubbornly persistent side effect of the injury that ended his rodeo career. One small last hurdle in his recovery, he would have her believe.
“But I don’t.” She took a step after him, then began to hurry. “Mr. Cody!”
He neither turned nor hesitated. For a moment, with concentrated effort, his step was surer. But only a moment.
“Wait.”
Nothing. He might’ve been deaf.
Giving no thought to propriety, she raced to him. Catching his arm she stopped him. “Please.” Her voice broke a bit as a gaze as dark and empty as a starless night turned to her, staring at her, through her, seeming not to see her at all. “Mr. Cody...Steve.” She felt helpless, lost, pinioned by unseeing eyes.
Never looking down, he took her hand from his arm. His fingers laced through hers, his thumb stroked over a callused palm. “Another time, Savannah Benedict. Another battleground, then neither of us will walk away until it’s finished.”
Releasing her, he turned without another word, resuming his cautious odyssey to his truck. Spine straight, head up, step determined, but no surer.
Hank Benedict let him go. The enigmatic new owner of Sunrise Canyon was a man unto himself, who wanted nothing from her at any cost. But there was much she wanted from him, and she would have it.
“We’ll meet again,” she mused as he reached a dusty nondescript truck and half crawled, half fell into it. “Then we’ll see what price the dream.”
The door to the truck thudded hollowly. A sound too faint to distinguish if she hadn’t been watching and listening for it. After what seemed too long a time, the truck backed from its parking place and moved slowly down the street.
Truck and driver were soon lost in traffic. Still looking in the direction he’d taken, she imagined the rest of his journey. The dusty, meandering road, the awesome landscape. Spring was her favorite season, the canyon was never prettier than in spring. She wondered if he would notice. Or if he truly cared.
“Dreams,” she mused. “But whose? Yours, or Jake Benedict’s?” Smiling grimly, she took up the gauntlet. “We shall see, Steve Cody. Oh, yes, we shall see. You and I.”
“Sis.” A familiar hand touched her shoulder, drawing her from thoughts and promises. “Jake wants you.”
Her smile faded as she looked up at Sandy Gannon. “Something wrong?”
“Naw,” Sandy pulled a Stetson of indeterminate age lower over his forehead. “Just being his usual impatient self.”
“The sale doesn’t start for an hour yet.”
“I know that.” Ambling along beside her, he headed back toward the tents and temporary corrals erected especially for the sale. “There’s a stallion he wants you to look at.”
“We’ve looked at what’s offered ten times over.” She was only stating fact, not complaining.
“This one ain’t offered.”
“Jake wants me to look at a stallion that isn’t for sale?”
“The stockman claims not. Says he only transported the critter up here for a friend.”
Hank stopped dead center of the walk. “A friend named Cody?”
“Would be my guess.” Weathered creases fanned from Sandy’s eyes as he squinted down at her. He was fourteen years younger than Jake Benedict, an integral part of her life and the ranch. Though he’d claimed to be eighteen, he was a day shy of fifteen, a runaway and a drifter, when he’d ridden into the fledgling operation looking for work. Nearly thirty-five years later he was still around, and the Rafter B bad become a sprawling territory.
For most of those years Sandy had been top hand, helping Jake Benedict get what he wanted, and then more. The Benedicts were his family, and along the way he’d served as mediator, conscience, friend and confidant.
He’d never taken sides in the conflict over her. Never calling her Hank, nor Savannah, only sis. And she wondered now, as she had so many times before, how she would have survived without him.
“What do you make of this?” She looked up at him, making a metal note to remind him he needed a haircut. A permanent condition for Sandy, a handsome man of absolutely no conceit. “Jake has expounded endlessly on this, but you’ve said nothing.”
“Well, now, I’d say it looks like the boy means business. This horse ranch just might come to pass.”
“One horse doesn’t make a ranch,” Hank observed mildly.
“This one makes a helluva good start.”
No one was more intuitive or more knowledgeable in judging horses than Sandy. His skill had been as instrumental in building the Rafter B as Jake’s business acumen. “He’s that good, huh?”
“Better.”
“So which way to the wonder horse?”
Taking her arm, Sandy guided her away from the corrals toward a cluster of horse trailers. “Jake’s got a tussle on his hands this time, sis. Together, horse and man comprise a genuine threat. Bullheaded determination, topnotch horseman, topnotch horse.” With a sly glance at her, he added laconically, “Handsome pair.”
The remark elicited only a mild nod. She was accustomed to Sandy’s innate wisdom stated in the mixed vernaculars of cowhand and self-taught scholar. However it was stated, she couldn’t deny that Steve Cody projected a certain handsome charm. And no one in his right mind would argue Sandy’s call on horseflesh.
“A real handsome cowboy.” He slanted another look at her. “’Cept for that minute when Cody looked like he swallowed his chaw.”
“Swallowed his... He didn’t...” She returned his look in surprise, then laughed and prodded him with her arm. “You’re teasing.”
“Just checking.”
“To see if I’ve been around cows and horses so long I don’t know a good-looking man when I see one?”
Sandy grinned. “Something like that.”
“I’m a Benedict, Sandy. Not blind.”
“Can amount to the same thing, sometimes.”
“Not this time.” They walked for a while, her hand resting naturally in the crook of his arm. “You were watching when Cody and I were speaking.”
“Just waiting for the two of you to lay down the ground rules.” He patted her hand. “Minding my manners like
your momma taught me. You know, not interrupting, not eating my peas with my knife, not—”
“He was pale.” She stopped the teasing rhyme and verse she’d heard countless times.
“Took a hell of a knock is why. Lucky he’s so hardheaded, or his skull would’ve caved in, instead of just denting. He’ll be okay. His doctors wouldn’t have let him out of the hospital otherwise.”
“You sound positive.”
“I am. Charlie told me.”
“Charlie Abramson?”
“The very same.”
“You’ve kept in touch all this time?”
“Yep. Same as I did with you those years you went south.”
“As you still do with Mother.”
“Yep.” Sandy made no other comment about Camilla Benedict. He’d said little since the day she left the Rafter B with her daughter eleven years before.
“How is she?”
“Sassy.” He grinned. “Beautiful and sassy. After all this time Georgia ain’t sure what hit it.”
“She decided not to marry the count.”
“I know. Was never an option. Not so long as she’s still married to your daddy.”
“There’s always divorce.”
“Not for Camilla,” Sandy said succinctly. “Not from Jake.”
Lapsing into the comfortable silence of longtime companions, they drank in the sights and sounds of the stockmen’s camp. In an effort to keep her thoughts from Steve Cody, Hank concentrated on Sandy. He’d been in love with her mother more than half his life. When Camilla Benedict was a lonely, neglected bride, Savannah suspected she might have responded.
But Sandy was too fond of Jake and too honorable. So he settled for becoming the word of wisdom, their rock when he was needed.
A horse whinnied, the cry reaching across the meadow. A reminder of the battle ahead.
“Sis.” Sandy drew her up short. His blue eyes were worried. “I’ve never gone against Jake Benedict in my life. He might be an ornery bastard and a greedy one, but he’s always been reasonable.”
“You don’t think he is this time?”
“Steve Cody deserves a chance. With this stallion and a lot of hard work, he just might make a go of the Broken Spur. He should be left alone. Dammit! The Benedicts have enough land without coveting his.”
“Have you said as much to Jake?”
“A hundred times in the last two weeks.”
“He didn’t listen.”
“Does he ever?”
“Then he won’t listen to me; either, Sandy. So what would you have me do?”
“Just be careful, don’t get hurt. Stay clear of the fracas if you can. Jake won’t win this time. If I’m right, and Cody stays, I’ve a feeling you’re going to have a choice to make.”
“I’m a Benedict, Sandy. Win or lose.” The stallion whinnied again, a reminder. “Jake’s waiting.”
When she walked on, Sandy let her go. He wouldn’t argue any more, but he wouldn’t back away. He’d seen Steve Cody—how he looked at her, even as he stood pat. A bronc rider down on his luck, but a man who wouldn’t fold at the first sight of Benedict money. A man strong enough for Savannah.
Jake Benedict and the Rafter B.
Steve Cody and the Broken Spur.
Father, or lover.
Sandy Gannon was betting against the odds, that one day, perhaps a day not so far away, that would be the choice Savannah Henrietta Benedict must face.
Chapter 4
Steve laid the digger aside, hefted the next to last post from a dwindling stack, set it, filled in the dirt, tamped it. Then, breaking the flow of the systematic routine, he stepped back, tired but pleased, regarding the result of his labor.
The new corral was almost finished. As strong and sturdy as the original, soon all it would lack was the stock. The barn was in passable shape, the house livable. Both structures in better repair than he expected after the twenty years the place had been abandoned.
The house was most surprising. No one would call it a mansion with its lack of common conveniences, but it was well constructed, and the Spartan, handmade furniture comfortable enough for his needs. Aside from a few cobwebs and a thin film of dust, Charlie and his family might have walked away only yesterday.
He’d wondered about the relative order and the attention given to minute details of its repair. Each evident in a shingle here, a board there; a hinge or window sash, newer, shinier, fresher than the original. All of it a puzzle without an answer.
In the end he’d dismissed it as the work of a wandering, luckless cowboy who found shelter from time to time in the canyon. One from the old school, who lived by an ancient code, repaying an absentee owner with a bit of handiwork. It was a custom not uncommon in the wilds of Texas—work for hospitality or shelter—a drifter offering secondhand gratitude by leaving a line shack or lean-to in a welcoming state for the next wayfarer.
No wayfarer could’ve been more grateful than Steven Cody. His trip from Silverton had been rocky. A trek across Benedict land, taking longer than the four hours he expected. The moon had been rising when the truck finally rattled around the last turn to begin the descent into the canyon.
A shaft of moonlight lit his way. In burnished half-light, half-crazed from the aftermath of crippling pain, he’d seen a land like none he’d ever known. A wonderland, a land of promise.
The heart of the Broken Spur.
He didn’t remember much of the journey before that moment, and little after. Only that the stream had been his guide, a ribbon of sparkling silver, leading him home. In his feverish mind, the canyon seemed to be waiting for him. For Steven Cody, welcoming him home.
He’d climbed the roughhewn steps and crossed the porch with a sense of déjà vu. That inherent awareness that he’d come full circle, returning after a long sojourn, to what he was meant to be. The creaks and groans of wood beneath his steps were familiar. As he lifted the leather strap that served as latch, curious scents of must and roses wafting from the interior of the tiny house were exquisite perfume.
The narrow bunk with a mattress of straw had been like a gift. When he’d crawled into it, shedding only hat and boots, it was the scent of roses that soothed him. As he let himself drift into the sleep his body and mind demanded, the ripple of water became his siren’s song.
His last coherent thoughts, half dream, half reality, were of a stream of silver. As silver as liquid moonlight. Sparkling silver, the color of Hank Benedict’s challenging eyes.
Grass and water, roses and silver, he’d mused on the edge of oblivion, wondering how could this not be paradise?
“Paradise,” he murmured now, looking out over the canyon floor. There was no moonlight to paint mystical pictures, no headache to cloud his judgment, and still spring’s new crop of grass was bright and succulent. The stream, even more brilliant in the sunlight, was clear and deep, approaching flood stage from the runoff of winter’s melting snow. The cattle that grazed within his sight were sleek and fat, their brand the brand of the Rafter B.
Four days into the third week, and no one had come to herd the cattle from the canyon. A nagging reminder that even in paradise there were serpents.
Sliding off his gloves, he tucked them in a back pocket and reached for his canteen. The water was hot and tinny, but no less quenching than if it were cool and fresh. Like a child with a wonderful surprise, he kept remembering this water was his. The land it flowed through was his. Every inch of it. There was no partnership, no sharing. Sunrise Canyon and the Broken Spur belonged to Steve alone. Charlie would have it no other way.
Savoring the last drop from the canteen, he took his gloves from his belt. Slipping them on again, with his mind far from the chore at hand, he decided he would give the Rafter B three more days. Two weeks more than promised, in the spirit of neighborliness. A last-ditch effort for peace.
Thirst slaked, taking up the digger he attacked the ground with renewed vigor. In a short time the last post was set, the last rails up. The corral was done
. For days on end, he’d labored from sunup to sundown, digging, straining, sweating, a definite change from his last months in rehab. He’d loved every minute and every aching muscle of it. Even the return trip into Silverton for the supplies he needed had been a pleasure. Half expecting a hassle, he’d crossed Benedict range cautiously, but no one had approached him. No one had challenged his legal privilege of right-of-way. Finally, ignoring the bump and scrape of the poor road, he’d given himself up to the transient softness only spring could lend to the stark beauty of this land.
Too beautiful to be true.
As the day was drawing to an end, he was in a mood to celebrate. With the sweetest water on earth he would drink a toast to the satisfaction of a job well done, to spring, to new beginnings.
Laughing to himself, he crossed to the low bank of the stream. Crouching at the water’s edge, he scooped up a handful, sipping from his palm, letting it spill down his arm and over his chest. Tossing his hat aside, he splashed his face and head. The water was cool and refreshing, offering relief from the waning heat of the day. He’d discovered the stream was always cool, always refreshing. As if it rushed along too swiftly for the heat of the sun to catch it.
Chuckling at his flight of fancy, he shook his head. Coal black hair flattened by sweat and the stricture of the Stetson began springing into curls over his forehead, dripping beads of water down his face and into his eyes. Fingers raked impatiently through the black mane tamed it for a time. Drying his eyes with a swipe of a shirtsleeve over his face, he looked to the horizon to judge the time.
“Well, hello,” he said softly, catching sight of a horse and rider, poised at the distant rim of the western wall of the canyon. “Who might you be?”
Squinting into the glare of the setting sun, Steve waited for some greeting. The hearty hale of a curious cowboy, a neighbor come to call. Perhaps a drifter passing through. There was nothing, only a waiting, watchful silence.
“Not the friendly sort, huh?” Rising cautiously, aware that he was well within rifle range and a perfect target, he lifted his head to meet a stare he couldn’t see. “A canny one, too, aren’t you? Keeping the light at your back.”
