"Yes, I love him," she admitted. "I love Baird Northcross with all my heart."
* * *
Cheyenne appeared through a boiling film of dust just after midday. Though it wasn't more than a few hundred buildings, Baird recognized that it was an impressive place by prairie standards. Buck said the town had become the territorial capital as soon as the first few cabins were cobbled together, and that it was the major stockyard for several hundred miles around.
Baird paused at the edge of the range where the herd had been turned out to graze, wiped the sweat from his eyes, and took a swallow from his canteen. Buck had explained they'd hold the cattle here west of town while one of them rode in to negotiate the price they'd get for the herd. That price was based on a combination of the value of beef at the slaughterhouses in Chicago and the condition of an outfit's cattle. That's why they had taken their time on the drive, letting the animals graze so they'd arrive in prime condition.
Buck rode up just as he was putting away his canteen. "You coming to town with me to sell the cows?"
Baird knew once Buck and the stockman started dickering with numbers and prices, he'd never keep up, and he didn't want to make a fool of himself. The news wasn't going to be good in any case, and he'd just as soon hear it where he could wash down the bitter taste of failure with a shot of good whiskey.
Besides, he had other things to attend to in Cheyenne.
He shook his head. "You go on ahead. You're the one who knows how these negotiations work."
Buck regarded him, a speculative gleam in those wise gray eyes. "As wrought up as you've been about making your quotas, I figured you'd want to be there."
Baird shifted in his saddle. "I've trusted you with so much else, I figure I can count on you to do what's best for us now."
Buck fingered his mustache. "You haven't got something else planned for this afternoon, have you?"
Baird shrugged. Buck saw through him like plate glass. "I thought I might see if I could find the Cheyenne Club."
The Cheyenne Club was where most of the big ranchers stayed when they were in town. It was reputed to have the atmosphere of a British men's club, except that it smelled of sagebrush and saddle leather instead of wind off the Thames.
Buck shook his head. "You going looking for trouble, son?"
"I'm going looking for Cullen McKay."
"What you need to find is the sheriff. Give him that tallybook you're carrying and let him take care of McKay."
Baird let out a long, deep sigh. "I've decided to handle this my own way."
"Because McKay's family? It don't seem like you two being family has done anything but make things worse."
Baird couldn't explain why he needed to talk to Cullen before he decided what to do about the rustling. It had to do with feeling responsible for Bram and the tragedy that had taken his life. It had to do with his uncle exiling him to Wyoming, and him making peace with Ariel's death. But it had most to do with Ardith and the children, and the life all of them had shared while they were here. With the memories he'd carry home with him afterward. He didn't want those memories sullied by regrets about Cullen McKay.
"I have to talk to him," Baird insisted. "But I suppose I should check on Durban before I leave."
The boy had been avoiding Baird more than usual since he and the hands had returned with the steers from the rustled herd. He'd tried to talk to Durban about what happened, but he bolted every time Baird mentioned Cullen's name. The affection Durban bore for McKay was part of the reason Baird was determined to confront his cousin privately.
Buck gestured with his hat brim toward the figures on the far perimeter of the herd, barely visible through the rising dust. "The boy was riding with Lem the last time I saw him."
Baird squinted through the haze. "Well, I guess Lem will keep an eye on him while I'm gone. I'd appreciate it if you'd take Durban to the hotel later, if I'm not back."
The older man shook his head again, just so Baird would know he didn't approve. "Behave yourself while you're in town," Buck warned him.
"I'm doing what I think is best," Baird insisted. "Now, are you going to give me directions to the Cheyenne Club, or am I going to have to find it by myself?"
* * *
"Excuse me," Ardith said to the florid-faced man behind the desk of the Wyoming House Hotel. "Can you give me directions to the Cheyenne Club?"
She and the children and Meggie and Myra had arrived half an hour earlier, travel-grimed and wind-blown after a wild, cross-country trip in an open wagon. With every turn of the wheels, the spark of impatience in Ardith's chest had burned a little hotter. Arriving in Cheyenne to find that Baird had not checked in gave Ardith a modicum of breathing room. Still, she was determined to talk to Cullen McKay before Baird did.
The desk clerk looked her up and down. She had taken time to wash and change her clothes and saw no reason for him to eye her in such a manner.
"The Cheyenne Club?" she reminded him.
"There's no women 'lowed in there, 'cept by special invitation, ma'am."
"Does that preclude you from telling me where it is?" she asked in her most imperious Boston manner.
"Just thought I'd save you the walk."
"Perhaps I crave a little exercise."
"You looking for anyone particular?"
Ardith glared at him, considering her options. Perhaps the clerk was nosy, or perhaps there was information to be had from him. "I'm looking for Mr. Cullen McKay."
"He sure enough is in town. He ate supper in our dining room just last night. You want to send a note 'round to the club instead?"
"I don't want to send a note," Ardith enunciated, smacking her palm on the counter for emphasis. "I don't care if women aren't allowed. I want you to tell me where the Cheyenne Club is, or bear the consequences!"
The desk clerk gave her directions.
* * *
Baird heard the shouting the moment he opened the Cheyenne Club's front door.
"I know what you've been doing! You've been rustling our cattle!"
He recognized the voice instantly. It was his son.
Baird crossed the foyer in three long strides and pushed through plush velvet curtains into a room off to his right. It was a parlor of some kind, though the furniture seemed tossed about in disarray. The men did, too. They stood like figures in a tableau, their actions suspended, their faces frozen with horror and fascination.
The only movement came from the back of the room where Durban stood facing Cullen McKay and brandishing a pistol.
A cascade of cold ran down Baird's back. Durban shouldn't be confronting Cullen McKay. Baird had come to do that.
He eased slowly toward where the man and boy were silhouetted against the light from a pair of wood and etched-glass doors.
"You stole our cattle!" Durban shouted. The pistol he'd carried for protection on the trail drive wavered as he spoke. "You drove our steers down the mountain from the summer camp."
"Durban, my boy." Cullen lifted his palms in conciliation. "You've made some kind of mistake. I never drove Sugar Creek cattle any—"
"You did! I saw you!" The boy's voice quavered.
Baird moved a few feet nearer, taking care to step into his son's line of sight before he spoke. "Durban," he said, keeping his voice low and cool. "Put down that pistol. This isn't your fight."
The boy's gaze flickered to his father, then back to Cullen McKay. Though his expression was fierce and his hold on the pistol was steady again, Baird could see the tracks of tears on his son's cheeks.
Baird stepped a little closer, speaking as if the boy were a skittish colt. "Give me that gun, Son. I'm the one who has business with Mr. McKay. I don't need you handling my affairs for me."
Durban held his ground. "He's been stealing our cattle!"
"I know," Baird said gently. "That's why I'm here. So why don't you just let me take care of this."
Baird heard a door being opening out in the foyer, heard the staccato beat of heels across the
wooden floor. The portieres in the doorway rattled back on their rings.
"Oh my dear Lord!" a woman whispered.
Ardith had arrived.
McKay pushed himself up from where he'd been seated at a poker table. "These are ridiculous accusations!" he claimed, spreading his hands wide. "Anyone who knows me knows I'd never steal cattle. This boy's confused, and Northcross is even more deluded."
In that moment, Baird realized who these men were. They were the wealthy, powerful men of Wyoming's cattle aristocracy. Cullen's peers. If he'd played his banishment the way Cullen had, Baird would have aspired to be one of them.
"Leave the boy out of this, Cullen," Baird said with a calm he was far from feeling. "Come with me before someone gets hurt. Let's talk this out like gentlemen."
"I have nothing to say to you, Northcross," McKay declared. "This is some sort of misunderstanding—"
"I found the valley," Baird said even more quietly. "I have the tallybook."
He saw the fear dawn on Cullen's face, mottling his ruddy features. "I never rustled cattle!"
"You did!" Durban cried, bringing his pistol to bear again. "I saw you do it!"
"Please, McKay." Baird shifted toward his boy, needing to ease the gun from Durban's hand. "Let's go somewhere and talk this out."
McKay seemed to realize how close Baird had come to both the boy and him. "I'm not going anywhere with you!" he shouted and in a single movement grabbed Durban's pistol and hauled the boy against him.
Baird pulled his own Colt and leveled it at the other man. Around him the men in the room scuffle backwards, getting out of the line of fire.
Ardith seemed to be holding her ground behind him.
McKay clamped one arm across Durban's chest and jammed the barrel of the revolver against his temple. The boy went stiff in Cullen's grasp, his face crumpling with fear.
"Now let me tell you how I mean to do this," McKay instructed, backing toward the pair of tall French doors that must lead out onto the club's broad porch. "The boy and I are going to step outside and take the first horse we see. And if I'm not followed, Northcross, I'll dump your son at the edge of town. If anyone makes a move to come after me, it will mean the boy's life."
Behind him Baird heard Ardith whispering—prayers, he hoped, because they needed them.
He slid half a step closer. "Cullen, listen. It's not too late to end this peaceably. Put down the gun. Let Durban go. We can—"
McKay hauled the boy closer and pressed the gun barrel more tightly to his temple. "Don't come a step closer, Northcross, or I'll kill him. I swear I will. They're going to hang me, anyway."
In an instant Baird sized up the situations. Cullen was two strides from the double doors. When he reached them, he'd have to pause to break the lock, and Baird would get his chance for a single shot.
Once he wouldn't have doubted his aim. Once, before Bram died, Baird had truly believed he couldn't miss. He didn't believe that anymore.
His pulse surged as he straight-armed the pistol and brought his left hand up to steady his right.
"Let the boy go."
The moment went high-pitched and airless between the two men. Durban hung in Cullen's grasp, his thin chest bellowing.
"Rot in hell," McKay snarled and stepped back against the doors.
Baird had just enough hunter's instinct intact to pick his spot—the corner of his cousin's tweed lapel, six inches up and to the left of Durban's ear.
The wooden doors moaned softly as McKay pressed against them. A seam of light streaked down the widening gap.
Baird's heart thudded like a cannonade. How can I be sure enough of my aim to pull the trigger, to risk Durban's life?
Then, like that day at the rustler's cabin, Ardith's touch came whisper-soft against his back. Her trust poured into him, and he fired.
The boom of the pistol resonated off the walls and vaulted ceiling. Smoke spiraled, acrid and black.
McKay lurched backward. The doors parted, spilling both man and boy onto the floorboards of he covered porch.
Baird's heart stopped beating as they fell.
"Durban!" he cried and started toward his son.
The boy pushed unsteadily to his feet and stumbled into his father's arms. "I'm sorry," he moaned. "I'm so sorry... "
Baird wrapped the boy against him, holding him so tightly he wasn't sure how either of them could breathe. "It's all right, Son," he gasped. "It's all right."
With the still-smoking pistol in one hand, he checked his son for injuries with the other. He shivered convulsively when his fingers came away wet with blood. Cullen's blood, not his son's.
Dear God, had his shot really come that close?
He burnished Durban's back with the flat of his palm not quite able to believe his boy was safe. Barely able to fathom what his son had tried to do for him.
"You did well," he whispered. "I'm proud of you for coming here. But it's over now."
Ardith stepped closer and gathered the two of them in her arms, hugging and weeping. She bound them all together just as she'd been doing, Baird realized, from the moment she and the children arrived in Wyoming.
As they clung together, Baird saw how in a span of months Ardith had turned China, Khy, Durban and him into a family. He was overwhelmed with gratitude that she'd stayed on with them, that she'd been here today when he and Durban needed her.
Baird leaned into them both, cherishing this moment when life was sweet, and the love he felt for Ardith and the children was sweeter still.
Around them the men crept slowly out of the corners of the room. Some went to where Cullen sprawled motionless on the porch.
Baird holstered his pistol and watched them bending over him. He hadn't wanted things between Cullen and him to end like this. He'd hoped to find a way to settle things quietly. He'd wanted to preserve at least a semblance of the Northcross honor. But when McKay threatened Durban, Baird hadn't had a choice about confronting his cousin.
Now Baird would have to face the consequences of shooting him. And when he reached England, he'd have to confront his uncle with the kind of man his bastard son had become.
Somehow Baird had the courage to do that now, now that he had found himself, found his place in his own family.
As he stood with his son and Ardith in his arms a few men ventured toward them.
"Best damned shooting I've ever seen," one of them said.
"Sweet. Very sweet," another murmured and patted his shoulder.
"Never expected McKay to be a rustler. He seemed like such a gentleman."
"Has anyone sent for the doctor?" another man asked.
"Cullen's alive, then?" Baird breathed.
"Of course he's alive," the man beside him answered. "That shot passed through his shoulder neat as you please."
Baird went boneless with relief. Ardith leaned closer, very nearly holding him up. She rubbed his back, broad-palmed and none too gently, like she was warming a swimmer who'd just come out of the sea.
"Are you all right?" she whispered.
"I'm better now," he answered and let out his breath.
A man in butler's livery breezed past them with a lawman in tow.
"What in hell's gone on here?" the sheriff blustered. "I'd have thought fellows in such a high-class establishment would know how to behave themselves."
Half a dozen voices rose to explain.
"May the three of us wait for you outside?" Ardith asked once the sheriff had had a cursory explanation.
The lawman looked her up and down. "Don't go far. I'll be needing to question Mr. Northcross."
Ardith was just ushering Durban and Baird onto the front porch of the mansard-roofed mansion when the doctor bustled past them.
Once outside Baird braced back against the railing and looked down at his boy. Durban's eyes had lost that hollow look, but he could still see the tremor in his hands.
Baird reached to smooth down his son's hair and saw the half-moon impression where Cullen had pressed the barrel
of his pistol to Durban's temple. The shakes took Baird all over again. His pulse thudded; his knees went wobbly.
If Cullen had pulled that trigger. If I hadn't...
Ardith wrapped her arm around his waist and squeezed him hard enough to halt his skittering thoughts.
The feel of her steadied him. He wrapped his arms around both her and Durban and held on tight. In these last months, he'd found his children waiting for him to be their father. He'd found Ardith—glorious, surprising Ardith—who had the courage to make him look at his life and the strength to help him change it. He'd found himself—in Khy's hugs, China's tears, and Ardith's kisses. He found the man he'd become reflected in Durban's eyes.
And for now—just these few minutes when he needed it so much—he wanted to hold on to all that he'd been given. All that he'd worked so hard to win.
Long before he was ready, Ardith shifted away from him. By the set of her mouth, he could tell she had something on her mind.
"Durban," she began, resting her hand on the boy's shoulder. "Don't you think you have something to explain to your father?"
Color washed into his son's ashen cheeks. "I'm sorry," he began. "I'm so sorry. I wasn't sure—"
Baird stopped him with a hand on his arm. "Just tell me whatever this is about, all right? "
Durban straightened, and Baird glimpsed in his face the fine, strong man his boy would become. "Papa," he confessed, "I knew that Cullen was stealing our cattle."
Baird nodded.
"I saw him rounding up some of our steers when we were at the summer pasture."
"Why didn't you come to me then?" Baird asked quietly.
Durban looked across at Ardith and she nodded to encourage him.
"The first time I caught Cullen stealing cows," Durban admitted, "was the day Khy got hurt. And I was so mad at you for letting that happen I couldn't tell you."
"I knew what Cullen was doing was wrong, but I—I thought you deserved what he was doing because you were never home with us. Because you made mother unhappy. Because you made her come to America."
Baird saw his child had punished him in the only way he knew—by keeping his secrets.
"I—I tried to talk to Cullen the day of Matt's funeral. I wanted to tell him I knew about him stealing the cows and make him stop. But I didn't have a chance."
Color of the Wind Page 34
