What would Cullen have done, Baird wondered, if he realized that Durban knew about the rustling? Would his boy have been safe, or might Cullen have tried to silence him?
"I followed him after that and found out where they were keeping the cattle. I almost told you the day we were looking for Randy, but I didn't know how."
They'd been so close. Not a hundred yards from the passage into the valley, but neither he nor Buck had seen it. He remembered how jumpy Durban had been, how tight and restless. He wished he'd understood what that meant and questioned the boy.
"So I told Aunt Ardith there was a place I wanted her to paint," Durban went on, "and I gave her directions."
"You what?"
Durban bowed his head. "I told her about the valley where the rustlers were keeping the cattle."
Baird shoved to his feet and stood over his son. "Didn't you realize you were putting put your Aunt Ardith in danger by sending her there?"
Baird could still see her riding into their campsite, so battered, so shaken. Durban had very nearly gotten Ardith killed.
The boy's blue eyes clouded with tears. "When I gave her the directions I—I didn't know there'd be men there guarding the cattle."
"He didn't know how to tell you," Ardith stepped in, fierce as a lioness protecting her cub. "He was afraid. You understand that, don't you, Baird? You've kept some powerful secrets in your time."
She was talking about Burma, about Bram's death. How hard it had been for him to tell her the truth, admit his culpability. But now when he thought back to that day in the jungle, the images weren't quite so vivid, so damning. They were softer, slightly blurred, like photographs left too long in the sun. He would always carry a terrible regret about what happened to Bram, but the horror was fading.
He laid a hand on Durban's shoulder. "All right, Son. Why don't you tell me the rest of it?"
Durban looked up at him. "I wanted to go with you when you went after the rustlers, but Aunt Ardith said she'd tell. So when you came back shot, I figured that was my fault, too.
"The day we were looking for Randy Cullen say he'd see you at the Cheyenne Club when we got to town. So I thought if I got here first"—Durban started to cry—"if I came here first, I could make Cullen admit what he'd been doing, so there wouldn't be any chance of you getting hurt again."
Baird gathered the boy against his chest, shaking his head in exasperation.
"I came because I wanted to get things settled." The boy's words were muffled against Baird's shirtfront. "Because everything that happened was my fault."
His fault.
Baird understood his son's feelings. He'd believed losing cattle was his fault. That not making the quota his uncle had set was his fault. In a way he still felt like he had to atone for everything he'd done wrong, but Ardith was teaching him to forgive himself.
"It's all right, Son. I'm proud of you for owning up to this, even prouder of you now than I was before." He couldn't think when he'd seen such courage or gallantry in someone so young.
"But next time—" He tipped his son's face up to his. "—let me handle things, will you? I'm a lot more dependable now than I used to be."
He looked across at where Ardith was standing with tears on her cheeks and a glow of pride in her eyes. He pulled her into his arms again, and stood holding her and his boy, and thinking he was the most fortunate of men to have been given all this.
That's how the sheriff found them when he came out onto the porch a good while later.
Baird tightened his arm still around his son's shoulders and faced the lawman. Ardith scrubbed the tears from her cheeks with one of her ridiculous handkerchiefs.
The sheriff was a bluff, businesslike man, with a chest the size of a puncheon barrel. "After talking to everyone inside, I have a pretty good idea what happened. There won't be any charges lodged against you, Mr. Northcross. It isn't often I have so many upstanding citizens witness a shooting, and are ready to swear it was self-defense. I just have a few more questions I have to ask you."
"Will you need to speak to either my son or Miss Merritt?" Baird inquired.
"No sir, just you."
"But Pa," Durban began.
"No, Durban. It's up to me to settle this. Now, can I count on you to see that your aunt gets safely back to our hotel? I'll join you there as soon as I can."
"Sure, Pa," Durban answered and offered Ardith his arm.
Ardith shot Baird an amused glance as Durban led her down the steps.
"You've got a fine family there," the sheriff commented.
"Yes, I do," Baird agreed. He'd have his whole family together until he had to put Ardith on the train. He wondered again how he was going to manage that, how he was going to give up someone so precious to him, so precious to all of them.
"Now, about Mr. McKay?"
Baird nodded, turning his thoughts to the business at hand. "I saw the doctor go in some time ago. Does he think Cullen will recover?"
"It was a clean shot, and Mr. McKay is being well taken care of. The doc did say that Mr. McKay might not regain full use of his arm, but it's too early to tell for sure. They've taken him to one of the rooms upstairs, and I'll be posting a guard."
"You've arrested him, then?"
"We don't take rustling lightly here, or endangering children, either. But, strictly speaking, the rustling is a territorial matter, so I'll give them the information I've collected. They'll want a statement from whoever found the cattle."
"That would be Miss Merritt."
"And do you have any evidence of what McKay was doing?"
Baird sighed, withdrew the tallybook from his pocket and handed it to the sheriff. He'd wanted so much for this to come out differently.
"Once we verify the script in the tallybook," the lawman said when Baird had finished telling him the rest, "we'll have everything we need to prove the charges."
"What will happen to Cullen after that?"
The sheriff seemed to know what Baird was asking. "He's made his bed, sir, but since the rustled cattle were all from your herd, I think if you had a word with the judge, he might be lenient."
"You mean McKay might go to prison instead of being hanged."
The sheriff adjusted his hat. "That's about the way I see it."
Bone-deep exhaustion weighed down Baird's limbs, the kind of exhaustion that came with shouldering unwelcome responsibilities. Still, he shoved to his feet and straightened. "Is there more you need to know, Sheriff?"
The man shook his head.
"Then, if you don't mind, I have some cows to sell down at the stockyards. I'll be at the Wyoming House for the best part of a week if you need anything more."
"Mr. Northcross?"
Baird paused at the head of the steps. "Yes?"
"This could have turned into something terrible, sir. I want to thank you for acting with restraint, and tell you you're either a damned fine shot or the luckiest man that ever lived."
Baird nodded slowly. "I'm the luckiest man that ever lived."
Chapter 18
Baird left the Cheyenne Club feeling like he held everything he'd ever wanted in his own two hands—Ardith, his boy, a sense of family, and his own lost honor. Even if the confrontation with Cullen McKay hadn't turned out the way he'd hoped, at least he'd had resolution.
Spotting Buck Johnson coming out of the stockyard offices reminded Baird of the ranch and the sale of the cattle—and of how he'd failed again. It reminded him that in a few days' time he was going to have to open his hands and let go of everything that was precious to him like it was one of Khy's damned butterflies.
He stood watching Buck make his way up the street, not sure he wanted to follow. He knew he'd tried when it came to running the ranch. He knew he'd done his best. But with Cullen undermining his every move, none of it had mattered. He'd accepted weeks ago that he wasn't going to meet the quotas his uncle had set for him or record the profits the shareholders expected. He didn't need Buck to tell him that. Still, he knew he shoul
d go after the older man.
Though dread lay heavy in his belly, Baird stalked along the wooden sidewalk in the direction Buck had gone. He caught up to him midway down the next block where the grizzled ranchman had paused to light one of his thin, dark cheroots. He turned as Baird approached.
"Did you sell our cows?" Baird greeted him.
Buck offered him one of his smokes. Baird accepted and lit the cigar, hoping the tobacco would take the edge off his anticipation.
"We got the beeves all counted and sold and driven into boxcars," Buck told him as they strode in the direction of the hotel.
"That went a good deal faster than I thought it would."
"They had a train headed out to Chicago this afternoon. I saw the opportunity, and I took it," Buck glanced over at him. "You wanted me to do that, didn't you?"
Baird gave a quick, jerky nod, wanting to hear the rest.
"I sent Jeff and Bear along to look after our beeves," the older man went on. "I gave the boys their wages, too. And a ticket back to Rock Creek in case they spend all their money on city women."
Baird did his best to smile. "That sounds fine."
His insides buzzed, and sweat crept down his ribs as he tried to muster the courage to ask how much Buck had gotten for the cattle. Even if they hadn't made the quotas, months of hard work came down to this. His self-sufficiency and the children's futures came down to this. It seemed so odd that he was going to learn something so monumental wandering down the street in a town thousands of miles from any place important.
He took a breath and forced the question up his throat. "So how did we do?"
One corner of Buck's mustache tilted as he fished a folded paper from the pocket of his jacket. "See for yourself."
Baird's hands trembled a little as he opened it. He paused in mid-stride to look down. His heartbeat stumbled.
Numbers! The paper was filled with numbers, notations in Buck's scrawled, uneven script. This meant more to him than any information he'd ever received in his life, and he couldn't make heads or tails of it.
Any goddamned fool should have known what this said, but Baird Northcross didn't. No wonder things had gone the way they had. He didn't deserve for them to go better.
He didn't even know if he should slap Buck on the back or hang his head in desolation. He slid a glance at the older man, trying to gauge what he expected.
"Giving the animals time to graze on the trail helped get that price," Buck was saying. "Matheson said our beeves were prime specimens, the best that passed through the stockyards all season."
"That's good," Baird answered, still studying the numbers. He couldn't bring himself to ask Buck about them. That would mean explaining his deficiencies, facing the shame. But he'd spent too much of his life making-do not to know how to worm his way around this.
"Mind if I keep your notations?" he asked.
Buck shook his head. "Nah. I figured you'd need those for your report to the stockholders, anyway. The bank'll be transferring the funds into the Sugar Creek account first thing tomorrow."
Baird tucked the paper away, then reached across and clasped Buck's shoulder. "Thank you," he said, squeezing hard. "I wouldn't have been able to make my way on the Sugar Creek if it weren't for you. I didn't know the first thing about cattle when I came here. If we've had even a modicum of success, it's because you're such a damn fine foreman."
"Well," Buck ducked his head and chewed a little on his cigar. "Well, you been a damn fast learner, Son. You ain't afraid of working hard, and you've a feel for the land. You sure you won't be coming back for another season?"
That question was the highest compliment Buck could have paid him. Baird rode a swell of pride and ducked his head, mimicking Buck's movements, behaving in a way that never would have occurred to him in London.
"I don't know what's going to happen," he answered honestly. "What with having to think about the children—"
"Lord Almighty!" Buck stopped dead in his tracks. "I forgot to tell you! Durban wasn't with the herd when I got back from seeing Matheson. No one seemed to know how long he'd been gone or where he went. As soon as we got the cattle into the railcars, I sent two of the men to look for him."
"It's all right," Baird reassured him. "Durban's with Ardith."
"The women are here, you mean?" Buck asked, his eyes brightening. It was clear he'd be glad to see his wife.
"They're at the hotel. I thought we'd all have dinner together tonight. Someplace where Myra doesn't have to do the cooking."
"She'll like that," Buck said, a grin breaking through his mustache. "So where'd Durban go?"
The image of Cullen holding the pistol to Durban's head flashed through Baird's mind. He felt the recoil of his Colt revolver against his palm and smelled the gunpowder. He remembered how Durban had clung to him afterwards, and how he'd clung to his son.
And to Ardith. Dear God, how would he have gotten through that without Ardith?
"Durban rode into Cheyenne to find Cullen McKay," he told Buck, a catch of pride in his voice.
"Well, damn me!" Johnson exclaimed. "You don't say. Did the boy find him? Did you?"
Buck steered Baird through the doors of the saloon they were passing and found a table in the corner. While they waited for their drinks, Baird told him the rest of it.
When he was done, Buck sipped at his whiskey and gave a sage nod. "It's what's right, Son. There's no sense blaming yourself for something someone else done. It don't matter why McKay broke the law, he stole those cattle. And he threatened your boy, to boot. He deserves to face his punishment."
Baird toyed with his glass of whiskey and knew that Buck was right. He'd let himself feel responsible for this because of pranks he'd played on Cullen when they were boys. He'd excused Cullen's thievery because somewhere down deep he'd thought McKay deserved better than he'd got.
Baird refilled Buck's glass from the bottle at the center of the table. "I just didn't want it to turn out like this," he said. "I didn't want to shoot him. I'd hoped to protect his family, my family, from what he's done."
Buck drank down another inch of the amber-brown liquor. "Don't you think his father knows what kind of a man his son turned out to be? Don't you suppose Cullen ended up out here for a reason?"
"So did I," Baird acknowledged and sliced a glance at the other man. "My uncle sent me here because he wanted to watch me fail. But no matter how we made out with the cattle, no matter whether we made a profit or not, I didn't fail. This country gave me something to believe in. You taught me what I needed to know about the ranch. I had the children to keep me—honest. And Ardith..."
Baird's voice broke, and he looked down at his hands. He knew Buck could see how much he loved her, how much he regretted losing her. He didn't even try to hide his feelings, though he wasn't sure he could put into words what Ardith meant to him, how much she'd given him.
After a long moment filled with the tinkle of piano music and the clink of glasses, Buck cleared his throat. "Well, if Ardith means so much to you, just exactly what are you going to do about her?"
Baird shrugged, his throat too thick to speak. The misery of saying good-bye to Ardith and putting her on the train lay just ahead. She had become so much a part of the fabric of all their lives that he didn't know how he could rip out such a vital thread without their entire world unraveling.
He needed her so much. He would never have learned to be a father to his children except for her. He would never have become the man he was if she hadn't pushed and cajoled and believed in him. How was he going to find the words to tell her all of that before she left?
Baird swallowed down half the glass of whiskey and looked at Buck. "There's nothing I can do about Ardith. I don't have anything to offer her. Back in England it isn't even legal for me to marry her. Besides, she's going back east. She's agreed to marry that publisher of hers, and she'd never break her word."
He heard the rasp of anguish in his own voice and knew that Buck must have heard it, too.
/> "Well, no," the older cowboy said. "Strictly speaking, Ardith hasn't told him she'd marry him yet."
Baird's head came up. "What?"
Buck pulled the letter he was to have mailed for Ardith out of his pocket and laid it on the table between them. "I was just on my way to the post office when I met you. Why don't you be the one to put it in the mail for her?"
Baird looked down at the creamy envelope addressed in Ardith's flowing hand. He looked up at Buck.
Johnson's wise old eyes bored into him. He was smiling ever so slightly and fingering his mustache.
Baird didn't even pause to consider the consequences. He picked up the letter and tucked it away.
"I'll see you back at the hotel," he said and shoved to his feet.
* * *
Baird topped the stairs and had just started down the wide, carpeted hall of the Wyoming House Hotel when China and Meggie came out of a room on the right.
"Papa!" his daughter cried and hurried toward him. "I'm so glad to see you!"
She threw her arms around him and hugged him tight. "Aunt Ardith said you were fine, but I feel so much better now that I've seen you for myself," she murmured against his ear. "Who would have thought that Mr. McKay was a rustler, for goodness sake? I can't believe it even now."
Baird got a good look at China when she stepped back. She had on her city clothes, a fashionable bodice and slim, draped skirt in a wine-red shade, and a smart, narrow-brimmed hat. She looked years older here than she had at the ranch, and he wondered when she'd grown up so much.
"Where are you and Meggie going all by yourselves?" he asked her, acknowledging the Jalbert girl with a nod of his head. Meggie looked older here, too, and he found himself wondering if Hunter would be as bewildered by the change in his daughter as Baird was.
"We're meeting Myra downstairs," China told him. "We thought we'd get something for Aunt Ardith to remember us by."
Something to remember them by. As if Ardith was likely to forget. As if he was likely to forget the way Ardith was with his children. As if he was going to be able to bear it when she was gone.
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