He held his ground. "I won't have my animals treated with such brutality."
Burroughs snuffed and spat. "I been breakin' horses for fifteen years, and nobody's ever questioned me."
"I'm questioning you now."
"Mr. Northcross," Buck broke in, his expression conciliatory. "The animals we rounded up aren't like the horses you're used to in England. Those horses have been handled since they were colts."
"This is the best way to break in mustangs," Burroughs assured him.
"Not at my ranch."
"A little discipline's good for a bronc. It builds character."
Baird's face went hotter. His shoulders flexed.
"Just how would you break the horses if you had the chance?" Buck Johnson asked reasonably.
Baird swallowed hard. He needed to give his foreman a serious answer. "I'd gentle them first. I'd win their trust before I expected them to tolerate a saddle."
Burroughs snorted with derision. "And spend all summer doin' it."
"We need ten mustangs green-broke for the roundup," Johnson reminded Baird. "That's only three weeks away."
"If this bothers you, Mr. Northcross," Burroughs sneered, "why don't you head on back to the house and let me get on with the job you hired me for?"
Baird swung at Burroughs. He landed a punch that sent the peeler staggering.
Grinding out a curse, Burroughs righted himself. He battered Baird with a roundhouse punch that knocked him sideways.
Baird shook off the blow and raised both fists. He had occasionally boxed in gentlemanly contests in England, but he'd also brawled his way through some of the most disreputable stews on earth. He could take this bastard.
As if to prove Baird wrong, Burroughs slammed his fist into Baird's ribs. Baird grunted, sucked in breath and lunged at the peeler.
They crashed sideways and went down. They thrashed in the dirt, gouging and kicking. Burroughs landed a knuckler that sent Baird's head snapping back. Baird pounded his fist into the other man's belly.
In spite of the hands hollering encouragement, Buck Johnson and Lem Spivey managed to drag the two of them apart.
Baird twisted out of Spivey's hold and stood there panting. Burroughs's nose looked mashed to one side, and he was weaving on his feet. Baird's jaw throbbed, and his lower lip seemed twice its usual size.
He hadn't felt this good in weeks.
Then he realized where he was and what he'd done. He'd been brawling in front of his children. He'd been behaving like a ruffian. Mortification scoured his face and throat. It took everything he had to turn to where his family was seated on the fence. He did his best to prepare himself for the shock and condemnation in their eyes.
The boys' faces were bright with excitement instead. China's hands were clasped across her chest, and her expression was worshipful—as if he had done something heroic.
A flush of victory sluiced through him, tingling beneath his skin. His children understood. They hadn't wanted to see the horse mistreated, either.
Then he realized that staid, proper Ardith was sitting there, too. Doubtless his behavior confirmed every reprehensible thing she'd ever thought of him. He steeled himself to look at her.
Unaccountably, she was smiling. If he hadn't known better, he might have thought there was pride shining in her eyes, that he could see a begrudging kind of respect.
He immediately discounted that and turned toward where the peeler was shaking off Johnson's grip.
Burroughs wiped a smear of blood from his cheek. "You keep your goddamned horses, Northcross. They're a mangy lot. I'm going to find me a boss who likes what I do."
"You do that," he advised and indicated the direction of the corral gate with a lift of his chin.
Burroughs limped over and gathered up his gear. Once the bronco buster had gone, Baird turned to Buck Johnson.
A frown had settled deep into the foreman's weathered face. "Well, now," the old wrangler said, as if he were scolding an errant schoolboy, "that there was a damn fool piece of business."
Baird flushed again. He was far too familiar with the sound of censure not to recognize it in Johnson's tone. Still, he'd done what he thought was right.
"And since Burroughs has up and quit," Johnson went on, "just where in hell are we going to get the horses we need for the roundup? Who's going to break these mustangs?"
Baird thought for a moment. "I guess I am."
* * *
Ardith sat at the table before the fire, her pen poised over the half-written letter. Trying to recount to Gavin what had transpired these last three weeks was proving to be far more of a challenge than she'd ever imagined. She frowned, shook her head, then dipped her pen and tried again.
After the bronc peeler left, Baird took over training the horses. Though he'd been renowned for his horsemanship in England, I couldn't imagine that he'd know how to break wild mustangs.
His first order confirmed my worst fears. Baird had the horses penned up in twos and threes and directed that they not be given so much as a mouthful of hay without his permission.
"You just can't stop feeding them," Frank Barnes, the horse-wrangler, had argued. "Wild ponies graze all the time. You can't shut them up in a corral without hay."
Baird refused to compromise. "Then they'll learn what I intend them to."
"That we're gonna starve 'em to death unless they let us ride 'em?" Lem Spivey snapped.
The children and I pleaded with their father not to mistreat the mustangs.
"What you're doing is inhumane," she had protested.
"Please, Papa!" Khy begged. "Please don't hurt the ponies!"
Baird just looked at her and the children. "I promise all of you, I won't let these horses be harmed in any way."
Contrary to our worst fears, the mustangs were fed often, but only a little at a time. Within a few days they began to anticipate the arrival of their feed—and the people who brought it. They began to tolerate the sound and scent, and occasionally even the touch, of humans. When one of the ponies showed signs of gentling, the cowhands would turn it into the corral to start its training with Baird.
Ardith and the children had been there when the first mustang came bolting into the ring. It had bucked and snorted and kicked up its heels. It had run flat out, its hooves beating up hazy puffs of dust, its mane and tail flying.
Ardith found her fingers itching for her pencils and sketchbook as she watched. She wanted to capture the sinuous play of the pony's muscles, the grace of its movements, the irrepressible spirit of this wild and beautiful creature.
Her heart twisted with the knowledge that whatever Baird did today would change this horse, tame it, constrain it. And Ardith knew far too much about constraint.
But Baird didn't seem eager to do that. He positioned himself in the center of the ring and let the mustang run. He kept turning and turning as if he couldn't take his eyes away from the pony, either, as if he appreciated both its beauty and its spirit.
Once the mustang had run off its pent-up energy, Baird gave a high-pitched whistle and swung the rope that had been hanging lax in his hand. The black pony snorted and sprinted in the opposite direction around the ring, bucking once and running another full circuit before it slowed. Baird stepped in close, turned it back again, and sent it running. He turned it half a dozen times in the next few minutes.
"What does he want it to do?" China asked in a whisper.
Ardith shook her head. Then slowly she came to understand that all Baird wanted was for the horse to acknowledge him, to turn toward him instead of away. It was a simple enough demand, but one the mustang kept refusing.
Baird asked and asked again. His eyes never left the pony. He turned toward it and then partially away, his body constantly in motion. It was as if he and this horse were dancing some mysterious dance, carrying on some wordless communication that was subtle, yet filled with meaning.
Ardith's chest went tight just watching them.
Though his movements were minute and s
pare, Ardith recognized the intensity in Baird, a focus she had never imagined he could sustain. There was calm and consistency in every gesture, as if Baird were drawing strength from some deep well inside himself.
This was not the Baird Northcross Ardith knew. This man was gentler, surer, more compassionate. A man of determination and will. A shiver of recognition moved up Ardith's back. This was the man his children needed.
Ardith instinctively opened her arms, bracketing the children who were poised beside her on the fence rails. As she did, she wasn't sure if she meant to protect them or reassure herself of her own connection.
Out in the corral Baird's body flexed as he worked with the horse, his every muscle taut with concentration, his balance and coordination flawless in the churned-up yard. Ardith couldn't tear her eyes away from the unconscious grace of his movements, from the breadth of his back and shoulders, the length of his legs. He seemed heroic standing alone against this untamed beast, unaccountably compelling. So different—and yet so much the same—as the man who'd lived inside her head for all these years.
Baird kept the pony loping until its sides were bellowing and the labored chuff of its breathing came loud on the cool spring breeze.
"Is he hurting the horse?" Durban wanted to know.
"I don't think so," Ardith whispered back, almost as breathless as the pony in the ring.
Ardith sensed when the horse began to respond to the movement of Baird's hands and the shift of his weight even before she consciously recognized the proof of it. When Baird signaled this time, the black turned toward him instead of away and warily approached.
A thrill moved through her, something sentient and innate, an understanding that went deeper than conscious thought.
Baird let the pony stand and catch his breath. The mustang watched Baird with wide, dark eyes.
Ardith stood as silent as the others gathered around the ring, recognizing the spell this man was casting and wanting to see if his sorcery worked.
Baird stepped to the right. The horse pivoted in his direction. He shifted left, and the pony turned its head. He moved right again, and the pony looked away.
Baird whistled and waved, sending the mustang running. Giving him back his freedom.
This time when Baird turned it, the black came toward him and paused. It stood warily, one hoof raised, ready for flight. Baird let it rest.
As they both stood motionless near the center of the ring, Ardith became aware that Baird was murmuring, cajoling. His voice was low and melodious, yet he wasn't quite singing. Whatever it was, it awakened an answering vibration in Ardith's chest, as if she were attuned to this man in some strange way. As if she'd become part of him, part of this strange, unexpected gentling.
He raised his hand toward the horse, slowly, tentatively. The mustang's eyes widened. Its nostrils flared, but it stood its ground.
Baird shifted his weight, stepping nearer, his palm outstretched.
Ardith's heart thudded in her ears. Her body went taut with anticipation.
Baird continued that warm, wordless lulling until it hung in the air like some kind of ancient music. He reached for the black pony's muzzle.
Ardith shivered, awaiting the stroke almost as if he were reaching for her. She sensed how her flesh would quiver under the caress of those long, sun-darkened fingers, how her skin would warm beneath his hand.
But she also recognized the danger in that fine, brave gesture. Would this mustang allow Baird in so close? Would it strike out in fear?
Just before the pony shied, Baird turned and walked away.
Ardith's heart constricted with disappointment, then leaped with fear. Surely Baird knew it was mad to turn his back on an unbroken horse. Surely he realized the danger, especially with a horse as wild as this.
Ardith's gaze flickered to the cowboys arrayed along the fence. Disbelief froze all of their faces. Buck Johnson raised his hand to the gate, ready to intervene.
The mustang shook its head and snorted.
A shout poised on her lips.
Baird never broke stride.
The mustang blew, shook its head, and fell into step behind him.
Ardith felt her knees tremble.
Baird turned slowly, and this time when he raised his hand, the pony sniffed at him. It rolled its eyes and shifted its ears. Baird stepped in close, speaking in those low, faintly musical tones. He rubbed the mustang's muzzle and neck, its face and ears.
Ardith was exhilarated, breathless with unexpected pleasure. She felt flushed, as if she had witnessed something extraordinary, some mythic feat she wanted very much to understand. How could the man she knew have done this? Was there more to Baird than she'd been able to see?
She looked around and saw the same amazement in the cowhands' faces. Buck Johnson was shaking his head. Lem Spivey scrubbed at his whiskery chin as if he were supremely perplexed. Matt Hastings was wearing a one-cornered smile.
"Has he tamed the horse?" Khy asked her, never turning his eyes from his father.
"Of course he has," China answered fervently. "And he did it without using his whip or his spurs."
It shook Ardith's perceptions to admit that Baird had done something far more significant than calming a frightened animal or bending it to his will. He had kept his promise. Without brutality, without domination, he had won the pony's cooperation.
Before Ardith could think the concept through, Baird turned the horse away with a swish of his rope and made it run.
In the course of the afternoon he demanded more and more of the mustang. When it did what he wanted he rewarded the pony with a scratch and a few soft words. When it balked, he sent it sprinting away.
Ardith and the children never strayed from the corral, compelled to stay by Baird Northcross' conjury, by the gentleness and unexpected power of this man. Even the hands ignored their duties around the ranch, and just this once Buck Johnson let them.
By the end of the day the pony was wearing a hackamore and following after Baird like a well-trained dog.
When he came into the house for the night, Ardith crossed to where he'd stopped by the sideboard to pour himself a whiskey. She could smell the freshness of the wind on him and the pungent musk of horses.
"How did you learn to do that?"
He poured three fingers of amber-brown liquor into a glass and jammed the cork back into the bottle before he glanced in her direction. She caught the flicker of new life behind his eyes.
"Old Ben, the stable master at my uncle's estate," he finally said, "was known for being able to train the most recalcitrant animals. He believed that you could teach a horse anything if you could get his attention and overcome his fear."
Ardith wanted him to make more of what he'd done than that. She needed him to tell her the trick he'd used to gain the animal's trust so she could explain away the magic. She wanted a reason for being so affected by what she'd seen.
He'd made it seem simple instead, and that simplicity unsettled her. It made her a little less sure of him. And far less sure of herself.
That uncertainty brought a challenge to her lips. "Do you think the horses you're breaking will be ready in time for the roundup?"
Baird set down his glass and turned to her. His intensity washed over her like the bright beam of a lantern. He looked her over from the knob of her tightly bound hair to the toes of her high-laced boots.
She realized how close he was to her. He gave off a strange, bone-melting warmth. Waves of energy that played havoc with her breathing, her thinking. She trembled a little before the breadth of him, the lithe, leashed strength in his torso and legs. Her nerves clamored with a need for her to step away, but she managed to hold her ground.
"Are—are the horses going to be ready for the roundup?" She repeated the question, hoping to regain control of the situation, of herself. And of him.
A shadow passed over his face. "I don't know," he said, and took his drink out onto the porch.
Something about the set of his chin as he
turned away and the rigidity of the lines around his mouth had sent a quiver of regret through her. She didn't like the part of herself that wanted him to fail at this.
Baird has his own rather unorthodox methods of training, yet he seems to be able to make the horses want to do whatever he asks. It is really quite remarkable.
The second lesson with the mustangs was meant to quell their fear and prepare them to be ridden. Once again Ardith felt drawn to watch the training. She was down at the corral minding the children when the same black pony loped into the ring.
As before, Baird kept it moving until it had run off all its restlessness. When he signaled it to approach, the pony lowered its head and shifted its ears. It was docile, ready to be scratched and petted—and taught.
This is magic, she admitted, newly shaken by the discovery. It was the very same enchantment that drew the children to their father. It was the same mysterious force that had drawn the shy, eager girl Ardith had been so long ago.
She remembered how Baird had led her out to dance the first waltz at their betrothal ball. Unaccustomed to being the center of attention, she'd been pale and quaking until he squeezed her hand.
"To hell with them, Ardith," he'd whispered. "You're dancing with me, dancing only for me."
He'd slid his hand around her waist, and she'd felt his warmth and energy seep into her. When the music had begun, they'd spun across the floor, and she had danced only for him, basking in the light of approval in those fierce blue eyes.
When she thought back she realized Baird had charmed her that night, beguiled her just as he was charming this pony today. He had beguiled her and made her believe in herself, made her believe he cared for her. Then he had betrayed her as cruelly as any man could.
As she stood watching Baird work with this pony, feeling shivers of his magnetism reverberate deep in her flesh, Ardith began to wonder if there wasn't danger here—a very personal kind of danger. She thought what had passed between them years before had made her immune to Baird. Yet she found herself responding to him in ways that frightened her. She didn't want to believe she could be so weak, yet there was something about this new Baird that made her strangely susceptible.
Color of the Wind Page 9
