"Myra said she thought you'd come up this way."
Ardith swung around at the sound of Baird's voice, startled half out of her skin. He was sitting his horse not six feet behind her. How in the world had he gotten so close? she wondered. She almost always felt the prickle of his energy when he came so near to her.
Baird dismounted and ambled toward her. "I'm not sure it's safe for you to be up here alone."
She waved one hand to indicate the burled handle of her Colt revolver poking out of her canvas bag of supplies. "I brought my pistol."
"Do you know how to use it?"
"I learned to use firearms at my father's knee."
When Ardith was ten, her father had decided that if his second wife was incapable of giving him the heir he so desperately wanted, he'd turn his older daughter into the son he'd never had. It was how Ardith had received her academic tutoring, instruction in shooting and driving and horsemanship. She'd turned herself inside out to please her father, but even her most diligent efforts could not compare with Ariel's more subtle artistry.
Baird hunkered down on his heels beside her and checked the load on the Colt. "While I'm duly impressed that you can handle this," he said giving the weapon back to her, "that isn't what I'm concerned about. You didn't hear me come up the trail behind you. You didn't even look up when Primrose whickered. You were oblivious to your surroundings, Ardith, and up here in the mountains, that's just plain dangerous."
Something about his concern warmed her, as if she belonged here at the ranch, and that made him responsible. "I'll be more careful next time," she promised. "What are you doing up here?"
He dropped down onto the rock beside her. "Buck and I were checking on the herd."
"Is everything all right?"
He shifted restlessly, removed and resettled his hat. "More of our cattle have gone missing."
She set down her brushes and stared at him. "How is that possible?"
"Buck thinks Indians drove the cattle off. Now that buffalo are so scarce, the Sioux take beeves when they need food."
"Are they allowed to do that?"
Baird shook his head. "The Army buys cattle for the Indians. Those Army contracts are one of the things that make these ranches profitable. But sometimes cows aren't available—or the ones the army buys never reach the Indians. Buck says the Indians don't like accepting what the army gives them, either."
Worry settled like dust in the fine lines around his eyes. "I wouldn't begrudge the Indians a few cows, except that if I'm to meet my quotas, I don't have any to spare."
According to the ledgers Ardith had updated, the Sugar Creek had been short of animals at the end of the roundup, with no explanation of how the projections had gone awry.
"What do you mean to do about it?"
Baird compressed his lips. "We're only a week from driving the herd to the summer pastures. Buck and I thought we might put a regular crew up there to keep an eye on them."
"Isn't that how it's usually done?"
"Not as far as I understand. Most of the ranchers just let the beeves wander. The grass is lush and the animals stay within a day's walk of water."
"If you put a crew up in the high country, will it leave you shorthanded at the ranch?"
"A little. Nothing we can't manage."
Then, as if he wanted to set his concerns about the ranch aside for a little while, he leaned closer. "So how's the painting going?"
"Not all that well," she answered with some consternation. "Though who wouldn't be inspired by such beautiful country? It's as if the colors are more vivid here, as if life is more vivid."
She could tell by the light in his eyes he understood. He reached for one of the paintings, and their hands brushed as he took it from her. She caught the smell of horses and sweat and honest work on him. She felt the press of his shoulder against her and was somehow comforted by his nearness.
He studied the paper in his hand and the one on the ground beside her. "Well, I'm no critic," he began, "but I think these are rather nice. It's the scope of the place you're missing."
Ardith nodded. "This land just goes on and on. There really are no boundaries."
He smiled in a way that made her think he knew what that meant in her work—and in her life. But what could Baird Northcross possibly know about boundaries? He'd gone places and done things she could barely comprehend.
He glanced at the paintings again, and she could see the appreciation on his face. "Maybe it's something as simple as painting on a larger scale."
"I see what you mean," she murmured. Her scenes crowded the edges of the paper, as if the subject she'd tried to capture was just too big for the page. The strokes she'd used to commit her impressions to paper were small, precise. This was not the kind of country that could be captured in a finite way.
If she was going to do this world justice, she had to be free to paint with the sweep of her arm, the thrust of her body. She needed big canvases, brushes with size and authority, oil paints instead of watercolors to make the hues richer, bolder...
"Or maybe you should be painting smaller things." Baird's observation broke into her thoughts. "The pictures in your letter were wonderful. It made me wish you were sending them to me."
She heard something that sounded like wistfulness in his voice and dismissed the notion as ridiculous. What would a man like Baird want with her sketches? They'd been jottings, a way to formalize her memories.
Maybe she needed to do the sketches in preparation for larger works. The possibilities pushed at her, tingling along her nerves and spreading a warm, heady flush beneath her skin.
She turned to Baird and grinned at him. "You're a genius!"
He laughed at her. "What? Me?"
"You are!" she insisted and started gathering up her paints. "You've put your finger on exactly what's wrong with these paintings. And now that you have, I know what to do to fix it. When I get back to the house I'm going to write Gavin—"
"Gavin," Baird said with a scowl. He shoved to his feet.
"—so he can send me oils and canvases and bigger brushes."
"Maybe we can get what you need in Cheyenne," Baird offered, waiting for her to finish putting things away and then hefting the bag of supplies.
"In the meantime, I could be doing watercolor sketches of smaller things, like the house and the horses."
Baird led her to where their mounts were tethered among the pines and helped her tie her drawing board to the back of her saddle. She mounted up, and he handed her the bag of supplies.
She caught at his shoulder with one paint-smudged hand. "I want to thank you, Baird, for helping me see what the paintings need."
"I didn't do much, Ardith."
"I appreciate your opinions, nonetheless. And once I get in touch with Gavin..."
All at once his eyes seemed to darken and a shadow crept into his smile. "Well, I'm just glad I could help," was all he said.
Chapter 8
The main house at the Double T blazed with lights, sending a warm, welcoming glow into the deepening twilight. As Baird guided the wagon nearer, Ardith could see that the place was grand by Wyoming standards. Tall, narrow windows ran the width of the clapboard facade. A corresponding set were tucked into the slope of a mansard roof. The wide porch that wrapped around three sides of the structure was already filled with guests.
"It looks like this is going to be quite a party," Ardith observed, hoping Baird couldn't hear the quaver in her voice.
"Buck says the house is built in the style of a club all the ranchers frequent in Cheyenne," Baird volunteered. He had been suspiciously silent most of the way to the ranch, and Ardith thought he might be as uneasy about the evening as she was. "He says McKay's backers shipped rugs, wallpaper, and furniture all the way from New York."
"You English gentlemen do like your niceties."
"Yes, we do." Baird tipped a wry eyebrow in her direction as he guided the horses to a spot in the yard where a number of other wagons were clustered.
Matt Hastings and China cantered up as Baird set the brake.
"I'm so excited I can hardly breathe," the girl confided, beaming at Ardith. This was China's first grown-up party, and she and Ardith had consulted for days over what she would wear.
Matt helped China dismount and stood gazing at her with an expression that hovered between profound respect and wanting to eat her up. Still, he was soft-spoken and mannerly, and Ardith liked him.
Baird jumped down and came around to help Ardith out of the wagon. She appreciated the courtesy but was uncomfortably aware of the breadth of his hands at her waist. Of the sharp, clean scent of vetiver and cloves that clung to his freshly-shaven cheeks.
Once Matt and China had handed their horses off to one of the wranglers and the men had unhitched the team, the four of them gathered up Myra's special chocolate cake and a towel-wrapped basket of yeast rolls and made their way toward the house.
Inside, they left the food with the Double T cook and moved into the hall where Cullen McKay was greeting his guests. He had dressed the dandy tonight. His bright double-breasted vest, striped trousers, and jay-blue coat stood in sharp contrast to Baird's all-black attire. Anyone looking at them might have thought Cullen a carnival barker and Baird a somber parson.
"I'm glad to see that the contingent from the Sugar Creek has arrived at last," Cullen welcomed them.
"Good evening, McKay," Baird greeted him formally.
"And, Miss Ardith, aren't you a positive vision?"
Ardith had dressed with particular care this evening, selecting a midnight blue gown, its skirt draped at the back with scallops of lace. She smiled in acknowledgment of his gallantry. "It's kind of you to say so, Mr. McKay."
"And, Miss China," he continued, directing her to a room at the top of the stairs, since she had brought her party dress in a carpetbag rather than arrive smelling of horses.
Once she was gone, Cullen McKay turned to the bluff, ruddy-faced gentleman beside him.
Ardith's mouth went dry as she waited for the introduction.
"Lord Melton, may I present Miss Ardith Merritt."
"Ardith Merritt?" Melton took her hand and blinked at her. "By God! The last time I saw you, you were barely out of pigtails. Where the devil have you been keeping yourself?"
"I came to America, my lord," Ardith answered, smiling a little now that she saw Cullen's guest was probably too much the gentleman to bring up her past.
"All the way to Wyoming? Imagine that! Save a dance for me, will you, my dear? I'd like to renew our acquaintance."
Cullen directed Melton's attention to Baird. "And this is Mr. Baird Northcross. He is managing the Sugar Creek Ranch for Northam and his partners. It's the property I told you about."
Melton reached for his monocle. "Northcross, eh? Was that your cousin Bram who was killed in Burma?"
Ardith noticed hot color seep into Baird's cheeks. "Yes, my lord, it was."
"Nasty business," Melton murmured in sympathy. "They say a tiger got him."
Baird's expression froze, his eyes glacial. "So I've heard."
Then abruptly he tightened a steely-fingered grip on Ardith's elbow and steered her past Melton and McKay. Once they were out of the crush, Ardith jerked away from him.
"Weren't you in Burma before you came here?"
"Yes."
"You didn't tell me about your cousin being killed."
"It must have slipped my mind."
Something stark and terrible in Baird's face kept Ardith from asking anything more, and just then, Buck and Myra Johnson joined them. Buck was flushed and jolly, and had evidently already visited the barrel of whiskey set up on the porch. Myra was clinging to his arm like a schoolgirl with her first beau.
"I don't suppose you know many of these folks, do you, Miss Ardith?" Buck asked her.
"I met a few of the men at the roundup. And my cousin kept company with one of the Frewen boys for a time," Ardith answered.
"Then you need to meet the women—not that there are lots of them out here. Myra will introduce you while I have a word with the boss—outside."
While the men went to smoke cheroots and sample the Double T's whiskey, Ardith and Myra ambled from room to room chatting. Ardith liked most of the ranchers' wives. Some were strong, blunt women like Myra. Others were Eastern ladies, transplanted to the west and trying to set down roots. A few bore the tight, long-suffering expressions of women who wished they were anywhere else.
Ardith couldn't help noticing that even the plainest unmarried girls were knee-deep in men. She recalled the flattering yet claustrophobic way Cullen had treated her when they'd first met. The men out here appreciated single women in a way they didn't back East, and Ardith couldn't help wondering how her life might have turned out if she'd come to Wyoming ten years sooner.
As soon as the little band began to tune up, everyone shuffled into the parlor. When the musicians swung into a reel a few minutes later, the floor immediately filled with dancers.
Before too many sets had passed Cullen McKay appeared at Ardith's side. "Will you do me the honor of dancing with me, Miss Ardith?"
Just as she gave him her hand, the reel wound down and the musicians struck up a waltz.
"I'd rather waltz with you anyway," McKay offered gallantly and swept her up in his arms. They spun across the floor, his guiding hand strong against her back.
"How have the children settled in at the Sugar Creek?" he asked her once they'd made a circuit of the room.
"Khy loves the ranch," she began. "And China is finding her own diversions."
"I noticed that," McKay observed, glancing across at where Matt and China were dancing a fraction closer than would have been sanctioned in London.
What would Ariel think? Ardith found herself wondering. Would she approve of her daughter's first beau? Would she think China was too young to be passing time with a young man already out on his own?
"And how is Durban?"
Cullen's question drew Ardith from her musings. "Haven't you talked to him?"
"Once or twice," he hedged.
"I think he likes the ranch, though he will never admit it. I've tried to get Baird to teach him to ride, but the lessons invariably end with one or the other of them slamming into the house. So I'm trying to teach him myself."
"He's a fine lad, your Durban," McKay observed.
If only Baird thought so, she found herself wishing. If only he could show his approval now and then, there might be something between his son and him besides hostility.
"And how is Baird doing with his cattle?"
Ardith shrugged, her thoughts still occupied with Durban. "Baird's worried about meeting his quota come fall," she volunteered. "The count at the roundup was lower than he and Buck expected. Then, too, the Indians have been appropriating some of our cattle."
She glanced up and recognized the anticipation in Cullen's eyes. Her stomach fluttered as she realized that she'd said more than she should.
Before she could decide what to do, the music faded, and Cullen escorted her back to where Myra was chatting with several other women. Her misgivings about her easy confidences deepened when she saw McKay cross the room and murmur something to Lord Melton.
She was still worrying a good while later when Baird came and offered her his hand. "You will dance with me, won't you, Ardith?"
His invitation surprised her, even though she'd seen him stomping and elbow-swinging with Myra Johnson earlier. "Of course."
The fiddler struck up another waltz, and Baird slid his hand around her waist. Ardith had not waltzed with Baird since the night of their betrothal party, and the feel of his palm against her back, the muscular grace of his movements, the scent of his skin were oddly familiar even after all this time—and they stirred up memories.
Amazingly, not all of them were unpleasant. Ardith had delighted in the scores of wedding gifts that arrived at the townhouse, and the crisp, rustling gowns of her trousseau. She'd been proud to be seen on Baird's arm and
enjoyed being the center of attention, just this once. But then Baird's letter had come and the world had changed for her.
Yet as sharp as those memories were, they'd been superseded by the memories she'd made in these last weeks—of Khy chasing Myra's chickens around the yard and Durban riding a horse for the very first time, of China bending close as she tried to learn to spin out tatted lace to trim her handkerchiefs. Ardith smiled a little thinking what pleasure she found in hearing Baird come into the house at night and knowing he'd made certain all was well.
Somehow she couldn't help wondering what it might have been like if there had been no Ariel to tempt him. What if she had become Baird Northcross' bride? What if they had come to Wyoming together? What if his children had been her children?
Longing crushed down on her, so intense it all but drove her to her knees right there on the dance floor.
She'd loved her sister. She truly had forgiven Ariel and grieved for her death. But these last weeks at the ranch had felt so right, like an alternative life Ardith might have lived if there had been no Ariel...
A scalding rush of shame replaced her longing, deep soul-scorching regret at even thinking such things. It wasn't as if she were wishing she could take her sister's place. That would have been bad enough. She was wishing Ariel had never lived, never burned with that quick, glorious radiance. Never given birth to the children Ardith loved so deeply.
She shivered with revulsion. How could she have shared her childhood with Ariel and think such things? How could she live with herself now that she had thought them?
And why would she think them now, while she was dancing in Baird's arms? Why here in a room full of strangers, when such selfish thoughts were best indulged in solitude—if indulged at all? What kind of a woman was she?
The kind of woman who wanted so much more than she had. A voice Ardith recognized as her own echoed in her head, and the insight frightened her. She didn't want more, she told herself and frantically shoved the thought away. She couldn't have more. She couldn't think of this now, couldn't think of it ever again. How would she live the life she had if she wished she were someone else?
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