The Cowboy's Orphan Bride

by Lauri Robinson

  The sunshine, or it might have been a pesky fly that kept landing on his face, woke him. Stretching and yawning, Garth swung his legs over the edge of the bed. His stomach growled loud enough to be heard across town. Last night, he’d made the choice of a bath over food, so this morning he was hungry enough to eat one of his own cows.

  He planted his hat on his head, pulled on his boots and left the room. Downstairs he ate enough for two men before heading over to visit the barber across the street to cut his hair and scrape off the whiskers he’d missed last night. All that done, he was fit and ready to face the day.

  And Bridgette. Thoughts of her had hung with him all night, even while sleeping. He couldn’t have that right now. He had twenty-five hundred head of cattle to get sold.

  Two men met him less than a block from the barber shop. Wearing three-piece suits and string ties, they stood shoulder to shoulder, blocking his path.

  “Garth McCain?” the one on the left asked.

  They dressed like twins, but weren’t. One was older and more hardened. “Yes, why?”

  “Mr. Solstead, Nathan Solstead, would like to speak with you,” the one on the left—the older one—spoke again.

  “What about?”

  “The cattle association. You brought in a herd of cattle yesterday, didn’t you?” the one on the right asked.

  “Yes.”

  “This way please.”

  His hackles were raised. There wasn’t anything wrong with his cattle. Garth followed the men and entered a building two blocks up the walkway. The Dodge City Cattle Association was painted on the window out front, and a young man wearing a white shirt with black armbands waved them toward a door on the left. Garth moved forward as the older of the two men who’d led him here opened the door and then stepped aside.

  “Thank you, Mr. Ellis, Mr. Harmes.” A portly man whose black muttonchops connected to his mustache stood up on the other side of a long desk. “Close the door, please, Mr. McCain.”

  Although no animosity hung in the air, Garth would have felt more comfortable with his pistols hanging off his hips. Knowing others didn’t carry weapons wasn’t as comforting as it should be. Guns could be concealed in many places and he had a distinct impression that there was a gun in this room. Several.

  The man walked around the desk. “I’m Nathan Solstead, Mr. McCain, and since yours is the first herd in town, I feel responsible to tell you what’s coming down the wire.” Solstead leaned a hip against the desk. “I can’t lie. It’s not pretty.”

  “I’m listening.”

  Solstead walked back around the desk. “Please be seated.”

  Garth stepped forward to an available chair, but didn’t sit down until the other man did. The tension in the room had the hair on his neck quivering.

  Flattening his hands on the desk, Solstead said, “You may have heard there are representatives from New York slaughter houses in town.”

  “I did.”

  “There are men in town from the railroad, too.”

  “There usually are.” Garth hated men who beat around the bush. If something needed to be said, it should just be said. “And?”

  “I’ll get straight to the point.”

  Garth hoped so.

  “Your cattle won’t be auctioned for a couple of days.”

  Annoyed, for that was not news he wanted to hear, Garth asked, “Why not?” He’d expected to wait a few days after selling his cattle to get his money because it took time for the financial transactions to take place, but the cattle auction itself usually happens within hours of arrival. It’s what he’d wagered on, why he’d wanted to be first to arrive. Buyers were always eager to get things started and they counted on word spreading about the fair prices they were paying.

  “Because of the packing house agents.” Solstead twisted his chair about to glance out the window behind him. “Feeding the metropolitan cities out east is big business. It’s the cattleman’s bread and butter, but it’s expensive and there’s no glory road.” Turning back around, a serious glimmer filled his eyes. “We need a lot working in our favor to make it happen. The Eastman Packing House out of New York is attempting to option all the railcars leaving Dodge. They’re claiming it’s the wave of the future and that it’s in the cattleman’s best interest. That it’ll make things easy all the way around. They’ll pay dollar on the head as the cattle are loaded into their railroad cars.”

  As the underlying consequences took shape, Garth shook his head. “But that’ll take out the market. Without additional buyers, there won’t be any bidding, any negotiations.”

  “Exactly,” Solstead said. “Eastman will set a price and that’s what everyone will get. They know winter feeding all the cows being driven in would be impossible and that there’s too much expense and risk in driving the cattle overland to another railhead.”

  “That may be true,” Garth said. “But I just took on those risks and drove twenty-five hundred head of cattle six hundred miles, in order to get good prices, and that’s what I expect.”

  “That’s exactly what you should expect. And every trail boss behind you will expect the same thing, but if only one company rules the railcars—”

  “They’ll have us over a barrel.”

  Solstead nodded. “I plan on talking with the first few trail bosses and owners to arrive, hoping we can put a stop to it before it starts, but I have to tell you, the railroad is interested. Optioning railcars is guaranteed money for them. Other slaughter houses like the idea, too. They’re already trying to decide which town they’ll each claim. If played right, those slaughter houses could rule the cattle market, the entire business, and not just in Kansas.”

  “That’s robbery,” Garth said.

  “I agree, and that’s why I’m telling you about it. Asking you to stand with the cattle association.”

  “Of course I will. I didn’t just spend three months eating dust to be cheated out of a decent payout.”

  “That’s good to hear, Mr. McCain. We are going to have to band together.”

  “I agree. What can I do to help?”

  Solstead leaned back in his chair. “Right now, I’m trying to catch every herd without fanfare. I don’t want word spreading that we caught wind of and are opposing their actions. They aren’t stupid, they know we will, but I don’t want push to come to shove until we have enough on our side for a fair fight. I’m not even telling the stockyard agents. A bribe under the table could be too enticing for some men.”

  Always cautious, Garth asked, “If it’s so secretive, how’d you hear about it?”

  With a gesture toward the closed door, Solstead continued, “Dave Ellis and Scott Harmes are local ranchers, as I am. We buy up the two-year-old steers, pasture them for a year and sell them off the following winter, after the drives are long over. By then the slaughter houses are in need of a few rail cars of cattle to make it until the summer drives fill their houses again. An agent I’ve known for several years from a Chicago house was out to see me in February, to buy a load, and told me of this scheme. How it was in the makings. The arrival of the Eastman agents yesterday, men who have never ventured this far west before, tell me it’s more than in the making.”

  Garth shook his head. Greed was a tough contender, the basis behind many fights, and he wasn’t about to let another man’s dishonesty steal him of his rightful earnings. “What do you want me to do?”

  “If you see a herd arrive, or know of one on its way, I’d greatly appreciate it if you would tell the trail boss to come see me. And if there are any you want to warn me about, think they might be tough to convince, that will be helpful, too.”

  “Can’t think of a single boss who wants to be cheated,” Garth said. “I have some cowboys we can trust. I’ll send them back out on the trail. Tell them to find the bosses and pass along a message to look
me up as soon as they hit Dodge.”

  “I’d appreciate that. Catching them before they hit town would be ideal. Once there are enough of us, we’ll confront the slaughter houses,” Solstead said. “Let me know if I can offer any assistance with catching the trail bosses.”

  “I will,” Garth said. Another subject that hadn’t left his mind had him saying, “And as long as I’m here, I’d like to mention a complaint about one of the stockyard agents.”

  Solstead nodded. “Elroy Williams. I heard about how you had to snag him out of the Crystal Palace, and I’ve already spoken to him about it. Firing him right now might not play in our favor, so I do have to tread lightly.”

  “As long as you’ve talked to him,” Garth said, although he’d like a bit more punishment heading Elroy’s way.

  “Thank you. I do extend my apologies about that.” Leaning forward and placing both hands on his desk, Solstead continued, “I’d also like to commend you for allowing your wife to assist the girls at Willow’s place.”

  Garth went as stiff as a corpse. Couldn’t even lift a brow.

  “Willow swears Mrs. McCain saved Michelle’s life and is disappointed now that you’ve arrived, your wife will no longer be staying at the Crystal Palace.”

  The night he’d told Bridgette he’d never pretended to be anything other than himself flashed across his mind. He wasn’t pretending to be sober this time, he was pretending to know all about what Solstead was telling him. And it was damn hard. A hundred questions spun around in his head, all going nowhere, and the sting in his stomach was worse than a thousand hornets.

  “Your wife must be a fine woman,” Solstead said. “A spirited one. I’m looking forward to meeting her.”

  “She’s spirited all right,” Garth managed to say.

  A shine appeared in Solstead’s eyes. “That’s the best kind.”

  Garth wasn’t overly sure he appreciated the man’s response.

  “Oh, and I’ll see that the sheriff returns your bail money,” Solstead said, standing up. “Yours and hers.”

  Word certainly spreads fast in Dodge, but it did most every other place. Garth stood and shook the man’s hand. “Keep it,” he said. “The bail money. Put it toward something useful in the community.”

  “That’s equally kind of you,” Solstead said, nodding toward the door. “I know you’re busy. I’ll be in touch soon.”

  “I do have some things to see to,” Garth said, more than ready to leave, and search down Bridgette.

  “Where are you staying?” Solstead asked before Garth had reached the door. “I’d like to send an invitation for you and your wife to join my wife and me for dinner. It’ll look less suspect if we all appear to be friends.”

  “The Dodge House,” Garth said, pulling open the door. He tipped the edge of his hat at the men in the outer office, but that’s where the pleasantries left him. Once outside, he gave the steam building inside him free rein as he headed for the tent city. Solstead had said Bridgette—or more specifically—Mrs. McCain was no longer at the Crystal Palace. That meant she was with JoJo.

  Of course she’d be with JoJo. Where else would his wife be, other than at his camp. That conniving little wench.

  * * *

  Bridgette spotted a tall man storming across the grassy area between JoJo’s tent and town as she draped the dress she’d just washed over the rope Bat had strung up, but it wasn’t until she felt his glare that she knew for sure who the man was. He’d shaved and taken a bath, and... A chill as cold as a New York winter raced over her.

  She spun around. There were few places to run, but she leaped over the rinse bucket and ran anyway.

  Inside the tent JoJo had erected last night, she looked for cover. The four canvas walls would offer no protection. It was far more of a trap, so she turned and raced back out the door.

  “Don’t bother,” Garth shouted. “I’ll find you wherever you go, and I won’t be any happier when I find you than I am right now.”

  She twisted left and right, searching for an escape. The open field, dozens of other tents, the chuck wagon. None of it would stop Garth. He hadn’t altered his storming approach. It was a direct line to her. The rope with her freshly laundered dress didn’t slow him. He didn’t duck or walk around it, just swiped it aside with one hand as he barreled forward. The rope and her laundry hit the ground in his wake, and both her wash and rinse buckets toppled, splashing water across the ground as he came closer.

  The air was tight in her lungs and her legs wobbled, but she planted her heels in the dirt and lifted her chin. He didn’t scare her. Not much anyway.

  “Now, see here, Boss—”

  “Stay out of this, JoJo,” Garth barked at the cook.

  Both JoJo and Bat had arrived. They weren’t blocking Garth’s path, but they were at her sides.

  “I’d like a word with my wife,” Garth growled as he stopped directly before her.

  Her heart crawled to her throat, where each beat cut off a bit more airflow.

  JoJo and Bat both looked at her and the expressions on their faces said they’d stand up for her. Though she appreciated their sentiments, it would be like two squirrels fending off a grizzly bear. She gave them both a nod and balled her shaking hands into fists as her protectors scrambled away. Pulling resolve from Lord knows where, she asked, “What would you care to discuss?”

  Running crossed her mind again as fresh anger snapped in Garth’s eyes and he grabbed her arm. His fingers dug into her flesh as he twisted her about and shoved her toward the tent.

  “You don’t have to be rude,” she snapped.

  “I don’t?” he barked. “Then tell me, Mrs. McCain, how is a man supposed to react to the woman’s who’s pretending to be his wife?”

  They’d entered the tent and she wrenched her arm from his hold. “I can explain that.”

  “And you’re going to.”

  “Stop shouting. Everyone can hear you.”

  “I don’t care who hears me.”

  “Well, I do. And you should, too.”

  “Don’t tell me—”

  “Stop shouting,” she said again, lowering her voice. He no longer frightened her. He hadn’t before either, she just hadn’t expected him to have found out this soon. Which had been foolish. Of course he’d have found out. Taking a deep breath, she calmly said, “I’m not going to tell you anything until you stop shouting.” For her own benefit, she added, “And calm down.”

  “Calm down, I—”

  “Yes, calm down. You nearly scared Bat out of his britches.”

  He opened his mouth, but snapped it shut. The action caused her heart to skip a beat. All his whiskers and dirt had hidden his extreme handsomeness. His features were certainly older and more defined, but clean-shaven, a hint of youthfulness as well as the Garth she used to know shone through. Despite the anger flashing in his eyes.

  “Bat’s seen me mad before,” he said.

  She huffed out a breath. “Everyone’s seen you mad before.”

  “If people would quit irritating me, that wouldn’t happen.”

  Sapped of her strength, she glanced around, but the tent offered no seating. Stacks of supplies lined the walls and the bedrolls she and Bat had used last night were rolled up along the back wall. JoJo had slept outside.

  Watching her, Garth said, “Home sweet home.”

  She shot him a glare.

  “Why would you leave a big house on the edge of town for this? Why would—”

  “Why shouldn’t I have left? It wasn’t my house. It wasn’t my family. I’ve lived with more different people the past nine years than I did at the orphanage.”

  Something that resembled tenderness flashed in his eyes, but disappeared as quickly as it had formed. “Bridgette—”

  “What? It’s fine for y
ou to get on with your life, but not me?” She couldn’t begin to explain how much that bothered her. How badly she hurt inside. A large part of her wanted him to hurt just as badly. “I’m supposed to stay in Hosford forever? Why? For what?”

  “Gather your stuff,” he said.

  “No. I’m tired of waiting for my life to start.” Once again anger flashed inside her. “I’ve spent years watching other people’s families grow, helping them grow. It’s time I start helping myself.” Leveling a glare on him, she added, “No one else is helping me, that’s for sure.”

  He waved a hand. “Gather your stuff.”

  Furious that he didn’t seem to care, that he didn’t even acknowledge his part in what was happening, she pointed out, “I can’t. My things are wet, and you just threw them on the ground. Meaning I need to rewash them and then let them dry before I pack them.”

  He took off his hat and ran a hand through his hair, which had also been cut since yesterday. Her heart thudded. This version was older, bigger, stronger and angrier, but it was Garth, and in a very different way that unnerved her. He’d changed so much. Everything had.

  “What were you hoping to gain by coming here?” he asked.

  Her chin quivered and her heart tumbled, yet she eyed him directly as an answer appeared. “Myself. My future.”

  They stood there staring at each other, neither blinking, much like they had yesterday in the jail cell. It was a showdown of who would give in first. It wouldn’t be her. Silently, solemnly, she promised herself that she would never, ever, give in again. Not to him or anyone else.

  And she didn’t.

  He did.

  Without a word, he turned and walked out of the tent.

  Bridgette let the air seep out of her lungs and closed her eyes. Drawing in another breath, she held it, forcing her insides to collect themselves. She’d told him the truth. She’d run away from Hosford, from the only home she’d ever known, in order to find herself, and there would be no going back. It was time for her to start living. And she’d show him that she didn’t need him. Never had.

  “You all right in there?”

  She opened her eyes at JoJo’s gruff voice. “Yes, I’m fine.”