Color of the Wind

by Elizabeth Grayson

  Still, Baird knew he must acknowledge Johnson's words, especially when he seemed to be seeking some sort of absolution. "Why did you do it?"

  Buck's eyes were dark, as if he were seeing other days. "The government wanted it done, and all this seemed so limitless. None of us believed we could make a difference—but we did. What we're doing today is making a difference."

  Baird couldn't bear the thought that this could change. He needed to know there would always be wide, swaying grasslands that rolled like the sea. Rough-faced mountains to claw at the sky. Rivers shimmering in the sun like the Powder was shimmering this morning. He needed the nourishment they gave him far too much to think they could one day be gone.

  Buck snuffled and gave a self-effacing shrug. The blunt, practical ranch foreman Baird was coming to know so well reasserted himself.

  "Seems like I done more than enough jawing for one day," he said. "We got beeves to chase. You take the far side of the creek and push any cows you find downstream."

  Baird nodded, nudged his horse over the edge of the slope, and as he crossed a meandering trickle of nut-brown water, he caught sight of half a dozen animals grazing down the draw. With a whoop and a wave of his rope, he lit out after them.

  In the space of the next few hours, Baird learned that cattle were the most contrary beasts he'd ever encountered. They moved only when and where they chose and hid in the most inaccessible nooks they could find. It took every bit of his horsemanship to stay on Dandy's back as they picked their way along the ridges and chased down strays in the streambeds between them. An hour before noon, Baird brought his animals down to where one of the '76's hands was holding a herd.

  "If there are more beeves out there, they've taken up residence with the prairie dogs," Baird greeted the man with a laugh. He was sweat-stained and saddle-sore and breathless. His shoulders ached from swinging his rope, and his throat was raw with shouting. But never in his life had he felt more satisfied.

  The other cowboy grinned in answer. "Then let's get the last of these doggies back to the wagons. Watkins will be wanting to brand the calves before we've had so much as a bite of beans."

  An hour later when he rode into camp, Baird saw Buck Johnson look up from his plate and nudge Thornton Watkins. Watkins raised his eyebrows in acknowledgment and gave Baird a grin.

  It was as sweet a moment of approval as Baird had ever known.

  * * *

  They could smell the branding a full mile off.

  "What is that stench?" China demanded, wrinkling her nose.

  Ardith pulled in the team that drew the lumbering farm wagon and sniffed discerningly, recognizing the smell she'd only read about. "It's singed hair and hide, dust, and cow dung. And men who haven't bathed in several weeks."

  "How barbaric!" China said with a huff and adjusted her parasol to better shade herself from the pounding sun.

  The wagon jounced into a rut, and Ardith glanced over her shoulder at the boys riding in the back. "Everyone all right?" she called out. "Nothing shifted, did it?"

  The wagon was packed to the racks with provisions—flour, canned goods, dried apples and beans, bacon and salt pork, and a full dozen loaves of Myra's fresh-baked bread.

  "We're fine," Durban answered. "Are we there yet?"

  "Here comes your father riding out to greet us."

  From somewhere in the maelstrom of smoke and mooing and dust, Baird cantered toward them. Ardith slowed the wagon and watched him approach.

  Baird had always ridden well, but today he and his horse moved with a unity of purpose that brought his horsemanship very near to poetry. The way he came at them, silhouetted against drifts of gold and gray, made Ardith want to paint him. She wanted to capture that dauntless freedom, the compelling arrogance of a man in tune with this raw, unfettered world. The power in that image sent chills up her back.

  "Papa!" Khyber shouted as Baird drew rein beside the wagon.

  Baird reached to grab the boy, who was teetering on the edge of one of the crates, and lifted him effortlessly into his saddle. Though it had been Buck who'd invited them to watch the branding when he'd stopped to visit Myra, Baird seemed genuinely glad to see them.

  A broad grin split his face, showing white against his sun-darkened skin and the sooty stubble that smudged his chin and cheeks. His hat was battered and dusty. His clothes were creased to the shape of his body, as if he'd ridden and eaten and slept in them. And perhaps he had.

  Still, the roughness suited him somehow, suited him in a way that sent a surprising warmth seeping into Ardith's belly. It was a treacherous warmth, a completely unacceptable warmth.

  "Buck says things have been going well with the children."

  Baird's greeting startled her from her thoughts. Had he asked about China and the boys, or had Johnson volunteered the information?

  "Yes, they have." Ardith began enumerating the goings-on, judiciously deleting the less-than-perfect moments she'd had with the children. "China has discovered Myra's cache of Dickens's novels."

  "I'm reading Oliver Twist," the girl spoke up, "and quite enjoying it."

  "I jumped into the hay pile from the top of the barn," Khy crowed.

  "And were very lucky not to have broken your neck," Ardith reminded him severely.

  Baird turned to his elder son. "And what have you been about?"

  Ardith waited, hoping Durban would tell his father about the riding lessons, the hours he'd spent cantering around the corral on Myra's gentle roan.

  "Oh, this and that," the older boy said with a shrug.

  Baird's smile dimmed, and Ardith spoke to cover the awkwardness. "Well, I have finished the paintings for my new book and shipped them off to Boston."

  "Have you now?" Baird asked her. "And have you begun work on another?"

  Before she could answer, a loud bawling came from the direction of the branding fire.

  Baird turned to look. "I guess they're taking a part of that calf he doesn't want to lose."

  Ardith bit her lip and waited for the question, knowing it was inevitable. It was China who asked it. "And what part is that, Papa?"

  Baird suddenly realized what he'd alluded to, and to whom. His eyes widened. Fierce, fiery red swept up his jaw.

  Ardith fought a gust of delighted laughter and let him stew in mortified silence until she was good and ready to rescue him.

  "They take off an animal's horns," she interceded, "isn't that right, Baird? So it can't hurt itself or the other cattle."

  The color in his face intensified. He didn't like her helping him. "They take its horns," he finally agreed, a scowl rolling across his face like storm clouds. "Now if you just pull up beside the chuck wagon there on the left," he directed Ardith, "our cook, Jubal Devereau, will see that everything gets unloaded. And for godsake, China, do close up that parasol. It'll spook the cattle!"

  With a flick of his wrist, Baird turned his mount back toward the noise and the smoke.

  Still chuckling to herself, Ardith followed.

  She and China and Durban found Baird and Khy at the branding fire a few minutes later. The activity around it was both frenetic and meticulously orchestrated. Several men on cutting horses rode into the snarl of milling cattle. Each selected a calf that needed branding, nudged it toward the edge of the herd, and eased it out. To keep the calf from doubling back, the cowboys had to ride hard and fast.

  Ardith had read about their horsemanship. Charging one way and sprinting back, standing, staring, whirling, and back-pedaling. She had never expected there would be such strategy in every move, such concentration and cooperation between a man and his mount.

  "These cutting horses are specially trained," Ardith offered, curling one hand around Durban's shoulder. "The men watch for colts that are intuitive and intelligent, then give them special instruction. See how that rider is guiding his pony by shifting his weight and pressing with his knees? He hardly touches the reins."

  "Do you think I could learn to do that?" he asked, his voice shaded wit
h awe.

  "I don't see why not," she encouraged him.

  As if afraid to contemplate the hours of work such mastery would take, Durban shifted his gaze toward the fire. "Why are they using those metal rods to burn the cattle?"

  Baird came up behind them. "That's how we know whose cows are whose. Each ranch has its own particular mark."

  It was the first straightforward exchange Ardith could ever remember hearing between father and son.

  "What does our mark look like, Papa?" China asked him.

  Baird squatted down and drew an interlocking S and C in the dust. "That's our brand."

  "They heat the branding irons in the fire and use them to singe off the hair," Ardith continued.

  "Does it hurt?" Khy wanted to know.

  As if in answer, the calf by the fire bawled piteously as one of the men stamped the gray-hot iron onto its rump.

  "I guess it does!" Durban said with a laugh.

  Just beyond the fire the calf's mother snorted with impatience and pawed the dirt.

  "Look how worried she is about her baby!" China exclaimed.

  "The cows get downright ornery sometimes," Baird confirmed.

  "Wouldn't you be upset if someone was hurting your child?" Ardith asked him.

  Baird turned away instead of answering, watching as the men hefted the calf to its feet and sent it loping toward its mother. "See, he's fine now, and none the worse for his experience."

  Just then Buck came striding toward them. "Jubal said you'd arrived," he greeted them. "Have you been showing Miss Merritt and the children how all this works?"

  "Ardith already seems to have considerable knowledge where roundups are concerned," Baird answered.

  "From reading Western novels," she put in.

  "There's not much more to show them," he went on, "just how we keep the cattle from the ranches separated so they can be driven back to their home range."

  "Well, then," Buck said, "I guess it's time we put the lot of them to work."

  Baird shook his head to warn Johnson off, but the foreman ignored him. "Willis Roberts had to ride down to the '76 this afternoon, so I thought we'd ask Miss Merritt to keep the tallybook."

  "I'd be happy to help. Just show me what to do."

  Buck motioned a young cowboy toward them, and Ardith recognized him as one of the hands from the Sugar Creek. "Maybe Miss China can work with Matt Hastings here, cooling down the horses as the riders bring them in."

  The young man doffed his Stetson, revealing a broad, pleasant face and thick blondish hair creased flat by his hat.

  "Ma'am," Hastings acknowledged Ardith. "Miss Northcross." A flush rose from his collar to his hairline.

  Ardith pressed her hand to her lips to hide a smile. China had made another conquest.

  "I'd be happy to work with Mr. Hastings," the girl replied, suddenly looking a little flushed herself.

  "What about the boys?" Baird protested. "If we're all busy, who will watch—"

  "That's why I'm giving them one of the most important jobs of all," Buck said with a smile. He turned to Khy and Durban. "You young fellows can tend the water bucket, can't you—keep it filled, carry cool drinks to the riders when they stop by?"

  "Sure we can," Khy agreed.

  Buck glanced at Baird. "And since you're working the branding fire this afternoon, I figured between you and Jubal at the chuck wagon, we could keep a pretty good eye on them."

  When it appeared that Baird might balk, Ardith spoke up. "I'll be there, too. Among us we can keep them out of mischief."

  With a nod, Buck Johnson took the boys and sent the rest of them about their tasks. Baird headed for the fire. Ardith gathered up the book and pencil and settled herself on a keg not far from where they were branding the animals.

  The tallybook was easy enough to keep, and she divided her attention between it and the boys, who were ferrying a dipper and bucket back and forth between the cook wagon and the cowboys bringing in calves. Carving cattle was dusty, thirsty work, and the riders kept the two boys busy.

  When the pace around the fire slowed, Ardith found her gaze straying to where Baird was working with the other men. She couldn't help noticing how the muscles of his shoulders and back rippled beneath his shirt, and what an advantage those long legs gave him when it came to wrestling cattle to the ground. Baird held the struggling animals with relative ease, making her realize how capable he was, how attuned to the sheer physicality of this work, how at home in the company of these rough-hewn men.

  Watching him, she sensed some of the same intensity she'd seen when he was breaking the mustangs. The same focus and strength and energy. Glimmers of something fine and indefinable. And it surprised her all over again, warmed her somehow.

  After a particularly long and busy stretch of counting and scribbling, Ardith looked up to make sure she knew where everyone was. Khy was perched on the seat of the cook wagon, eating a slice of pie out of his hand and listening to some story Jubal Devereau was telling him. China and Matt Hastings were leaning against the fence of the makeshift corral, their shoulders aligned but not quite touching. The girl had taken off her hat and was peering up at Matt from beneath a drape of sun-bright hair. He was giving her a soft, one-cornered smile and was clearly besotted.

  Durban stood off by the Double T's chuck wagon with Cullen McKay. Something about the friendship that had sprung up between them on the way from Rock Creek made Ardith uneasy. Had McKay deliberately befriended the boy to strike out at Baird, or had Durban sought Cullen this afternoon because he sensed it would antagonize his father? Either way, seeing the two of them together brushed cold tingles along the back of Ardith's neck.

  Just then, Baird and Buck Johnson converged on her. "How's the count coming along?" Buck wanted to know.

  "Well enough, I think," she answered. "I have some preliminary totals."

  "Mind if we have a look?"

  Ardith handed over the book, pointing to the column for the Sugar Creek.

  "Well?" Baird asked, and Ardith thought she heard both impatience and a hint of uneasiness in his voice.

  Johnson's mouth drew tight beneath his mustache. "The count's lower than we'd expected here, too."

  "Godamnit!" Baird breathed. "I was hoping we'd make up the shortfall once we got on our own range."

  "You mean you don't have as many cattle as you thought?" Ardith asked him.

  "The size of a herd is supposed to double every third year," Baird explained. "We're falling a good deal short of that."

  "Even counting the calves born this spring, we're coming in with a lower number of beeves than we counted last fall," Johnson answered. "I can't rightly comprehend that, either. This wasn't all that bad a winter."

  "Perhaps our animals drifted south," Baird suggested, squinting down along the face of the Big Horns. "Perhaps we'll find the ones we're missing when we do the Double T and the '76."

  Buck Johnson's eyes warmed with concern as he looked at Baird. "What's your quota for shipment this fall, son?"

  Baird shifted uncomfortably. "I'm a little behind on my correspondence from London. I'm not sure what they expect."

  Johnson must have known from the mound of papers on the desk at the ranch that Baird hadn't so much as looked at the letters. Or the ledgers, either, as far as Ardith knew.

  Still, Buck allowed him the lie. "Well, last year Mr. Wycliffe drove eighteen hundred head to market in Cheyenne and sold them for nearly eighty thousand dollars. I doubt they'll expect anything less from you."

  The lines around Baird's mouth deepened. "And how far short of being able to do that are we?"

  "Well, if you're right about those cows drifting south," Johnson conceded, "we might just make it."

  The idea that Baird might fail at this shouldn't have made Ardith go hollow inside. But then, her concern was for the children, not Baird himself. The children had just lost their mother, their home, and their stability. If Baird were successful in running the ranch it would begin to give some of that back. And
after seeing how hard he worked, Ardith had to admit she didn't want to see Baird thwarted, either.

  All of them looked up from the tallybook as three cutters rode in, each dragging a calf to be branded.

  "Sugar Creek," the first cutter shouted and everyone sprang into action.

  One of the cowboys flanked the calf, tossed it, and sat on its head, earmarking it in the bargain. A second immobilized its hindquarters, while a third snipped off its scrotum. Baird pulled a Sugar Creek iron out of the fire and held it to the little fellow's hip. The calf bellowed loud and long as Ardith made a mark in her tallybook.

  "Looks like we've got about four dozen more to brand," Jeff Mason reported as he dragged another calf up to the fire.

  Once the branding crew had taken it off his hands, Mason motioned to Durban and Khy. "You boys still delivering water?" he called to them.

  "We sure are!" Khy jumped down from his perch on the seat of the chuck wagon and grabbed up the dipper. He started toward Mason at a run, leaving Durban to heft the bucket and follow him.

  The younger boy's path took him between the calf at the fire and its mother, standing bellowing and splayfooted at the edge of the herd. The heifer took exception to the boy's intrusion, snorted once, and lowered her head.

  Ardith caught the movement from the corner of her eye and shouted a warning. Baird turned in time to see what was happening and bolted toward his younger son.

  But Durban was closest. He shoved Khy aside as the heifer charged, then swung the pail of water. It smacked the cow in the nose and bought Durban the second or two he needed to shield his brother's body with his own.

  The cow snorted and butted the bucket out of the way, her hooves dancing over the huddled children.

  Ardith ran toward the boys, her heart in her throat.

  Baird reached them first. He stumbled to his knees and grabbed Durban's shoulder. "Durban! Damnit, Durban! Are you all right?"

  Ardith skidded to a stop just behind him.

  Durban shrugged off his father's hand, slowly pushed to his elbows, then fell back to his knees. "I'm fine," he said.