The Best Man

by Maggie Osborne

  “And none of you have had a single shooting lesson. There are all sorts of predators out there, just looking for a chance to carry home some beef for supper. What are you going to do? Stand there and watch a wolf take down one of the steers you need to get your inheritance?”

  “No, Mr. Frisco.” Freddy’s green eyes flashed. “Since you know everything, I’ll call you to come and shoot it, so you can save the steer you need to get your place in Montana.”

  Her feistiness always made him want to laugh. He liked it that she gave as good as she got. “That might be a workable solution if I planned to ride at your side and nursemaid you from here to Abilene, but that’s not how it’s going to happen. I could be a couple of miles away. And maybe that wolf doesn’t have a taste for beef, Miss Roark. Maybe that wolf would like to improve himself by swallowing a bite or two of actress.” He walked past them, heading for the door. “You’ve got two weeks to show me some reason why you should go on this cattle drive.”

  He grinned as a wave of hatred hit his back and propelled him out the door.

  He wasn’t grinning an hour later when Freddy’s horse stopped hard and she sailed over the horse’s head. If the ground hadn’t been softened by the rain, she would have broken her neck. Swearing steadily, he walked over to her, mud sucking at his boots, and looked down. “Get up.”

  “I can’t. I’m dead.” She lay on her back, rain streaking the mud on her face.

  “Is anything broken?”

  “It feels like every bone in my body is broken. And frozen.”

  He heard Grady shout, “Well, God damn.” Before the words were out of his mouth, Les flew through the air and hit hard right in front of Dal’s feet. She landed face first and slowly pushed to her hands and knees, spitting mud and shaking. At least they were alive. And he didn’t notice any bones poking out of their clothing.

  “I detest you,” Freddy said in a thoughtful voice, as if she’d thought about it and reached the only possible conclusion. She was still flat on her back, staring up at him.

  “I know it, and that’s starting to piss me off. This was your pa’s idea, not mine.” He extended his hand to yank her up, but she refused his assistance. “I’m making this as easy as I can. That isn’t a longhorn you’re working with, it’s a milk cow, for God’s sake. And you two have the best-trained horses in south Texas. I don’t know what else I can do.”

  Grady stormed up beside him. “You women ain’t gonna be happy until you done give me a heart attack! How many times do I got to tell you. Keep your eyes on the cow! Stop looking at the horse. The horse is going to follow the cow, damn it. All you got to do is keep your butts in the saddle and hang on. Now why is that so dad-blamed hard?”

  “Thank you for asking if we’re hurt,” Les moaned, tears rolling through the mud caked on her face. “We sure do appreciate your concern.”

  “I know you’re hurt, damn it.” Grady reached down and jerked her up on her feet. “Do you think you’re the first to learn cutting? The first to go peddling over a horse’s head?” He spit a stream of tobacco juice. “Now get your butts mounted and go find that cow you done scared off. Drive her back here to where I’m standing, hear me? Shoot fire, I hate working with women!”

  Freddy dragged herself out of the mud and hunched over, turning in a circle and groaning. “I’m cold and wet and I hurt all over. I hate this, I just can’t stand it.”

  “The day after tomorrow,” Dal said grimly, “you’re going to work a longhorn.”

  Both women stiffened and stared at him. The only parts of them that weren’t coated with mud were their horrified eyes.

  “Hopefully, you’ll live through the experience. And after that, we’re going to start some target shooting.”

  One of them screamed when he walked away, but he didn’t look around to see which one.

  He rode back to the ranch and around the side of the house. Slumping in his saddle, feeling rain drip off his hat brim and down his collar, he watched Alex.

  She was on the ground, trying to coax a flame to life beneath an umbrella. If possible, she was muddier than her sisters. If he hadn’t known she was wearing black, he wouldn’t have been able to guess the color of her attire for the mud coating it. As he watched, she shook wet clods from her hands, blew on cold fingers, then bent over the firewood again. If a woman could curse with her eyes, then she was cussing up a storm. He rode away when he spotted a flicker of orange and heard her shout in weary triumph.

  He had to stop worrying about the Roark sisters being prepared and ready for the drive. They never would be. But if he wanted a chance at his future, he had to take them along anyway.

  First, he had to see Lola.

  The rain had stopped by the time Dal presented himself at Lola’s door, bathed, barbered, and dressed in clean trousers, vest, and jacket, and a string tie. Starlight reflected in the puddles, and the evening air smelled like spring. He’d have been tempted to think it a fine evening if he hadn’t been standing on Lola Fiddler’s stoop, and if he hadn’t been sober.

  She opened the door herself and stood looking at him with a half smile curving her rouged lips. The light behind her revealed a plumper silhouette than he recalled, but the added curves only enhanced her charms. Lola was no spring chicken, but she worked at being a woman that men looked at twice, and most men did. Age was making inroads, but she was putting up a fight.

  “Well, well,” she said in the husky voice he remembered. Leaning forward, not caring if a neighbor watched, she kissed his cheek. “Think you’re going to need that peashooter?” she asked, smiling at the holster slung around his hips.

  “I ought to shoot you right now.”

  “Why, Dal honey.” She opened the door wider. “Is that any way to speak to a poor grieving widow?”

  Taking off his hat, he stepped inside and glanced at her dusky pink gown. “It doesn’t look like you’re grieving too much.”

  Laughing, she tucked her arm through his, leading him into a parlor crowded with furniture, potted plants, and geegaws atop every surface. “I never was one for conventions.” A man wearing shirtsleeves and a fancy vest rose out of a chair near the fire and reached for his jacket. Lola waved a hand in his direction. “This is Jack Caldwell. He’ll be my representative if the cattle drive actually gets under way. Jack, this is Dal Frisco. You’ve heard me mention him.”

  Dal hesitated as long as Caldwell did, then reluctantly they shook hands.

  “Sit down, gentlemen,” Lola suggested, smiling and in her element. “Whiskey?” Lifting a tray holding three full glasses, she carried it to the chair Dal had chosen and held it near his face, letting the dark sweet fragrance drift toward his nostrils.

  He looked up at her, speaking through his teeth. “No thank you.”

  “Oh, that’s right,” she said, turning to offer the tray to Caldwell. “I heard you went off the sauce.” She swept him a look over her bare shoulder. “You sure did used to be a drinking man, Dal honey. We had us some times in those days, didn’t we just?”

  She didn’t miss a trick. Her comments were intended to make his throat burn for just one glass of good old times. And she’d left Caldwell seething and wondering if the times she referred to had involved naked flesh and bouncing bed ropes.

  When she twitched her skirts out of the way, he took a long look at Jack Caldwell, instantly disliking the man. He would have known that Caldwell was a card fanner even if Luther Moreland hadn’t already told him. Caldwell had the closed expression of a poker or monte player, a man always looking for an edge and the big jackpot. Plus, he had that slick appearance that many gaming men favored. Striped trousers, a maroon vest shot with silver thread, a gold watch chain and a heavy gold ring. Blond hair and mustache completed the picture. Dal wouldn’t have trusted Caldwell to give him the time of day.

  “Cut to the chase, Lola,” he said. “Why the summons?”

  She sat down and arranged her skirts, then pushed her lips into a pout. “Can’t a girl request an old friend t
o drop by without being accused of hidden motives?”

  “You used me, double-crossed me, damned near got me killed, and then skipped out with the money you owed me.” Sitting this close to her, he could see that powder had collected in the lines spraying out from the corners of her eyes and running from nose to mouth.

  “Why, Dal honey, clearly there’s a misunderstanding here.” She waved a hand, airily dismissing his accusations. “Didn’t you get my message? Well, I guess you didn’t. That explains why you never met me in St. Louis like I asked you to. I waited three weeks to give you your share of the money, then I figured you must not have survived the end of the war.”

  Dal smiled. “You never left any message.”

  He tented his fingers beneath his chin and wondered how in the hell he had ever gotten mixed up with her. Had he been that out of control or that starved for a woman’s company? “Emile Julie is still looking for you. If he or his men find you, they’ll kill you. But I guess you know that.”

  “Last I heard, Julie was still looking to kill you, too.” She brought the whiskey glass to her lips with a steady hand, amusement twinkling in her eyes.

  A year ago she would have been correct. But the first thing he’d done after he sobered up was decide he was tired of running, tired of Julie’s men tracking him down no matter where he went. Only happenstance had kept him alive long enough to sit down with Julie and buy his way out. The meeting was not a pleasant memory. Pacifying Julie, which meant repaying half of the money Lola had cheated him out of, had cost Dal every cent he could beg or borrow. Julie had wanted him to repay the entire thirty thousand, but Dal had drawn the line at saving Lola’s hide. He was willing to buy his own life, but even if he’d had the money, he would have let Julie kill him rather than pay one cent on Lola’s behalf.

  “Julie hasn’t cooled off any,” he said, watching her. “He’s convinced that we ruined his life, destroyed his integrity, and he believes every single person in Louisiana is still laughing about how you and I played him for a fool.”

  “That we did,” she said, smugly, preening herself.

  “You did. I didn’t know anything about Julie.” Enough time had passed that he could talk about it now. He still burned inside, but he didn’t eat himself up with thoughts of revenge. Someday, Emile Julie and his men would find Lola and take care of it for him. “A word to the wise. Don’t underestimate Julie and don’t think he’s forgotten. He’s out there, and he’s looking for you.” She wouldn’t believe him. Or maybe she did, but he knew her. She’d outfoxed Julie once, and her expression said she believed she could do it again if the need arose.

  “What the hell are you two talking about?” Caldwell asked, leaning forward and twirling his whiskey glass between his knees.

  Dal turned his eyes toward the settee. “It’s none of your business.” Caldwell frowned and stiffened, but he had the sense to keep his mouth shut. Dal looked hard at Lola. “You owe me fifteen thousand dollars.”

  “Interesting that you should mention money, because money is part of the reason I wanted to see you again,” she said prettily, dancing away from any offer to repay the sum she owed him. She waved the whiskey under her nose, letting him see her sniff the aroma before she took a sip. Dal swallowed, almost tasting the liquor on his own tongue.

  “We have a proposition for you,” Caldwell stated coldly.

  Dal kept his gaze on Lola’s glass of whiskey. “That’s an interesting trick. Caldwell’s lips move, but I hear your words.”

  Caldwell half rose out of his seat, but Lola waved him down. “Jack and I have… an arrangement. Joe’s will provided for a representative of my choice to accompany the drive and make sure I don’t get cheated. Since Jack has an interest in the outcome, he’ll represent me.”

  “He has an interest in the outcome? Already lining up the next husband?” Dal asked, looking back and forth between them.

  Lola gave both men a coy smile. “I’m too fresh a widow to make an announcement at this time, but…” She blew Caldwell a kiss. “Of course, I’m not going to stay here sitting on my thumbs while you boys play with my future, not when I got so much at stake. I’ll follow the herd but along more conventional routes, and Jack will report to me from time to time.”

  So Lola would be part of the drive, too, only not as visible as his other observers. Mentally, he traced the stage routes, guessing where she planned to rendezvous with Caldwell.

  He withdrew his pocket watch. “I’ll give you five minutes to say what you have to say.”

  “Tell him, Jack.”

  Standing, Caldwell hooked an elbow on the fireplace mantel. “We know what your arrangement is with the Roark sisters. You get around sixty thousand dollars if the drive is successful and you sell two thousand steers in Abilene.”

  “Luther Moreland talks too much.”

  “We’re prepared to double that figure if you lose enough steers to fall below the required number. Considering your past history, that shouldn’t be too difficult,” Caldwell said.

  Dal crossed an ankle over his knee, forcing himself not to jump up and break pretty boy’s jaw. “Your puppet isn’t too tactful,” he commented to Lola. “In fact, he’s pissed me off. So, which one of you do I tell to go to hell?”

  She laughed. “This offer is my idea, I guess you tell me.” Leaning forward enough to give him a glimpse down her bodice, she patted his knee. “Now, Dal honey, before you get your balls in an uproar, just consider. Everyone knows you lost your last two herds. And the truth is, it’s not likely that you’ll bring this herd in either, not with three uppity women working the line. So, this is a generous offer. We’re prepared to pay you a small fortune just for letting things happen as they will anyway. All we’re asking is that you help things along if a miracle occurs and it starts to look like you might actually bring in the required number of cattle. You make sure that doesn’t happen, and we all get rich.”

  Caldwell tossed back his whiskey and slapped the empty glass on the mantel. “The way I hear it, you’re finished. With $120,000, it won’t matter.”

  Lola tapped his knee again. “We’ll write up a contract, nice and legal. Not with Luther, of course. Luther can’t know about this. The minute I sell Joe’s ranch, you get paid. In cash. This is the easiest money you’ll ever make, Dal.”

  Minus a few refinements, like the contract and the amount, the speech was similar to the one she had made to convince him that selling the army’s herd to the French would make his fortune. Except he wasn’t drinking now.

  “I’ve waited a long time to tell you to go to hell,” he said softly.

  “Dal honey, you know you aren’t lucky, you never have been,” she said, holding his gaze. “You’ll never get two thousand steers to Abilene, not with three women in the outfit. So why not take my offer and relax? A man has to look after his own interests.”

  On his last drive, he’d lost a hundred cattle in a single river crossing. But if he accepted her offer and a similar disaster occurred on this drive, he’d ride into Abilene knowing it didn’t matter. He wouldn’t end up with empty pockets.

  “Are you still dreaming about Montana?” she asked, running a finger down the back of his hand.

  He stared down at her, seeing the expensive silk dress framing her breasts, and noted the rich fabric covering the chair she sat in. All of it paid for by Joe Roark.

  Then he thought about Joe’s daughters, stiff and sore, muscles bruised and aching, their hair, skin, and clothing matted with Texas mud. He pictured Alex dragging herself over the ground, and Freddy and Les hobbling out to climb on a horse knowing they faced more hours of sheer agony. Dal didn’t believe the sisters had a prayer of winning their inheritance, but if by some miracle they did, they would have done it honestly. So would he.

  “You know what you can do with that offer.” Picking up his hat, he strode toward the door.

  “My offer isn’t going away, sugar. You can accept right up to the very end.”

  Outside her door, he su
cked in a deep breath of clear, cool air, then he walked directly to the saloon, pushed through the smoke and noise, and hooked his bootheel on the bar rail. He ordered a whiskey and hunched over it, smelling the fumes and moving the glass in familiar wet circles, thinking about Montana.

  Along about midnight, the bartender leaned across the counter to wipe up a spill of beer. “You going to drink that whiskey, mister, or just play with it all night?”

  “What’s it to you?” Dal snarled, dropping a hand to the gun on his hip.

  “Just asking, that’s all.”

  He went back to sliding the shot glass up and down, forming the shape of mountains. Lola had offered him $120,000. But he noticed that she hadn’t offered to repay the fifteen thousand that she’d cheated him out of.

  Brooding, he let his thoughts drift to the Roark sisters, remembered Freddy sailing through the air and splatting into the wet ground. Thought about green eyes blazing up at him out of a sheet of mud. Her breasts heaving while she sucked air, trying to get her wind back. He had looked down at her sprawled at his feet and he’d wanted to fall on her, rip off the male pants that molded her buttocks, and roll her on top of him. Every time he was near her, he felt like they were circling each other, watching and waiting.

  He pushed the whiskey away and rubbed his forehead.

  The liquor he’d consumed during his drinking days must have drowned his brain. He’d agreed to a doomed cattle drive that was not going to restore his reputation because he couldn’t possibly succeed. And if that wasn’t enough evidence that he was stone crazy, here he sat, in a saloon at midnight getting sweat on his brow from thinking about a green-eyed, mud-soaked actress who detested him.

  If he still needed proof that he’d pickled his brain, all he had to do was think about Lola’s proposition and ask himself what kind of man turned down a no-lose offer?

  In some ways, life had been a lot easier in his whiskey days.

  Chapter 7

  On the day the Roark sisters were scheduled to work their first longhorn, the King’s Walk hands started drifting toward the area behind the pens shortly after Freddy and Les grudgingly arrived. Until Freddy saw the men lined up along the fence, her chin had been dragging, her heart pounding, and, like Les, she was shaking with dread and half-convinced they were going to their deaths. But the sight of an audience transformed her. She squared her shoulders and told herself this was simply a scene to be played, that was all. She could do this.