“Stay out of your way?” Les snapped. “You can count on it!”
They glared at each other, then hurried to close the distance between themselves and the stragglers. Freddy’s gaze centered on a spotted mouse-colored steer who meandered along at a turtle’s pace. She was focused enough that she didn’t see trouble coming until she heard the pounding of hooves. When she looked up, six black steers with five-foot horn spans were trotting straight toward her, heading for home with a determined look in their eyes.
“Oh God.” Her heart stopped and every muscle in her body went rigid. The sudden convulsive pressure of her thighs signaled Walker forward and her horse leapt toward the oncoming longhorns, an action that almost gave her a heart attack. When the steers saw her racing forward, they scattered, still heading south. “Les?” The shout for help came out as a hoarse croak.
Horrified that she’d appealed to Les—Les!—for assistance, she still looked wildly to the east, hoping Les would respond. But Les was riding pell-mell toward some southernbound steers, terrified and screaming for Freddy.
Freddy whipped her head around to face the oncoming steers and everything she had learned or been told went out of her brain. She stared in panic at the longhorns trotting around her, her heart slamming against her ribs, and she went limp in the saddle, helpless with shock.
Walker couldn’t tell the difference between a relaxed rider and one half-dead with fear. Her horse interpreted her collapse as his signal to go to work. For the next twenty minutes, all she did was concentrate on holding on, keeping her seat, and trying to swing her legs away from hooking horns. When it was finally over and her horse drew up in quivering satisfaction, the six blacks were headed north again, moving fast to catch up with the herd.
Sweating and utterly boneless, Freddy fanned her face with her hat and waited for her hands to stop shaking and her heart to climb back into her chest. When she could breathe without making terrible little sounds, she leaned forward and stroked Walker’s neck. It was all his doing that the steers had been turned around, not hers.
Regardless of how it happened, she’d had a success, and she hoped that Les had witnessed it. But she didn’t see Les. It wasn’t until she looked behind that she spotted Les riding toward the herd. In the far distance, two cimarrones were turning into specks, running south toward home.
“You idiot,” she shouted when Les caught up, scarlet-faced and streaming sweat. “Thanks to you, we now have two thousand two hundred and ten steers! The first morning isn’t half-over and you’re already lost two steers!”
“I’m an idiot?” Les screamed. “Who lost her horse two minutes into the drive? Who could have helped me but didn’t?”
“I was busy over here!” Freddy yelled. Their horses circled each other as they shouted and screamed. “But I didn’t lose any of my cimarrones! And I’m sick of helping you. I’ve been helping you all of my life. Well, I quit! From now on, you’re on your own!”
They stopped screaming as three longhorns trotted past them, heading home.
“Well do something. Or are you going to let three more get away?” Freddy shouted.
“They’re on your side! If you’re so damned good, you turn them around!” Without a backward glance, Les cantered after the herd, leaving Freddy to chase down the escaping cimarrones or watch their margin shrink by another three beeves.
She was hot on their trail before she realized that she’d just heard Les swear; she planned to rub it in later. Right now, she had her hands full. After a grim battle of wills, she eventually managed to turn back two of the homeward bounds, but she lost the third. Wiping sweat from her forehead and swearing, she watched the third steer speed south.
And that wasn’t the only problem. A wide distance was opening between the dust from the main herd and where she was now. The stragglers were so far behind they made up a separate herd. Frustrated to the point of forgetting that she didn’t know what she was doing, Freddy threw back her head and screamed. Then, vibrating with determination, she galloped up hard and fast on the stragglers on her side, shouting cusswords and mad enough to kick at their lazy hides when Walker rode in close. She went after the two cattle who had tried to escape, spooked them into a run, and ran them right past the stragglers, up the side of the herd, and snarling and kicking, she all but shoved them back into the main bunch. Those damned cattle were going to catch up if she had to kick them every step of the way.
From the side of her eye, she noticed that Les, too, had lost some of her shyness and fear. She was kicking at a straggler in frustration just as Freddy had done, all the while screaming her head off. Freddy didn’t have time to think about it. She shot after a pair of stragglers, who looked to her like they were thinking about going home. The hell they were.
When Frisco showed up about noon, Freddy rode up to him in a fury. “Where have you been! We could use some help here!”
“I can see that,” he said, his mouth tight. “You have stragglers strung out for almost half a mile.”
“You’re looking at Les’s side. My side isn’t strung out that far. So where have you been?”
The steely look that she hated came into his eyes. “Riding drag is the easiest job in the outfit. If you’re looking for help to manage a few slow beeves, you ain’t gonna get it, friend.”
“It’s more than that, and you know it. We’ve been fighting those damned cimarrones all morning!” She would have stabbed a finger in his chest if she could have reached him. “We’ve lost four steers now. Four!” Moisture generated by anger and frustration glittered in her eyes.
“We knew we’d lose a few,” Frisco said finally, his mouth grim. He studied her flushed face and the sweat streaming down the sides of her cheeks.
“How can you be so calm?” she shouted, trying to keep her horse from dancing around his. “We’ve lost four before noon of the first damned day!”
“On the plus side, you and Les finally learned to do some cowboying. You’ve learned more in the last few hours than you learned in six weeks of preparation.”
Freddy blinked, startled into silence. He was right. She hadn’t once worried about staying on her horse since her disastrous beginning. Hadn’t thought about aching muscles in her arms and thighs, or the dust, or anything except catching the escaping cattle before they got too far away.
Nothing was going to alter a healthy fear of wickedly curving horns and the massive size of the cattle, but this morning she hadn’t had time to think about being afraid. For the last few hours, she had glared at the fleeing cattle and felt a burst of fury that they were trying to escape, steal her future, and make her look bad in the process. In her heart, she was absolutely certain they were doing it on purpose.
“The main herd is grazing during the noon rest. Bring up the stragglers, then come to the wagon for something to eat.”
Les arrived in time to hear Frisco’s instructions. “Won’t the steers wander off?”
“At least two drovers are riding circle,” Frisco said, looking at the hair falling down her back and the blood pulsing in her throat and cheeks. “After Daniel and Peach eat, they’ll spell the Webster boys.” Slowly, he looked back and forth between them, then touched two fingers to his hat brim and rode toward the campsite that Freddy noticed off to the left of the herd.
“We look like hell,” she muttered, staring at Les.
“Did you tell him that we lost four steers?” Les looked as exhausted as Freddy felt. “What did he say? Are we in trouble?”
“He behaved like it didn’t matter. It’s not his inheritance.” But his money was also tied to bringing two thousand steers to market, so her snarled statement fell flat.
“Is he going to send us some help?”
“What do you think?” Freddy snapped, turning her horse’s head toward the stragglers.
“I can’t bear the thought of telling Ward that we’ve already lost four steers!”
“Then don’t tell him,” Freddy said sharply, riding off. She was in no mood to hea
r about Ward Hamm.
If one more thing went wrong, Alex thought she would lose control completely.
During the hair-raising chase after the pilot, her crutch had bounced out of the wagon but she hadn’t discovered the loss until the pilot waved her off and she had wrestled her team to a shuddering halt. Shaking and quivering from the horrifying ride, feeling like her bones had rattled loose, she wiped terrified tears from her eyes, unable to move for several minutes. When she finally collected herself, she’d reached behind the seat and discovered the crutch was missing. The shock of it stunned her. Then came the realization that she was stuck.
She could not reach her wheelchair, which was tied on top of the bedrolls and the other supplies she was carrying. She couldn’t even climb out of the wagon to the ground. Fresh shock came with the appalling realization of how swiftly she had become dependent on the hated crutch. Now it was gone, and she was helpless.
She was still sitting on the wagon seat fifteen minutes later, blinking hard and feeling hopelessly inadequate when Grady’s horses swept past her. As he rode by, he paused long enough to give her a disgusted look before he tossed the crutch up to her.
But now she was so rattled that she didn’t pay attention as she climbed out of the wagon. Her skirt caught on the brake handle and threw her off-balance before the material ripped up the back and tore free. She fell flat on the ground just as Luther Moreland and Jack Caldwell drove in to camp. Luther jumped down and ran toward her, but Grady’s voice stopped him.
“You of all people should know you can’t offer any assistance,” Grady shouted, looking past Luther at Caldwell, who was watching carefully.
Crimson with humiliation, Alex managed to pull herself up, frowning as she examined her skirt. It hadn’t ripped along the seam, worse luck. The skirt was ruined, and exposing a lot of petticoat. “Grady, where is my bedroll?” She had an extra skirt rolled up inside.
Grady’s eyebrows soared as if she’d lost her senses. “You ain’t got time for no nap,” he snapped. “And I got just five minutes before I need to see to my horses.” He dropped the front of the chuck box for her, and hastily dug a fire pit about fifteen feet from the wagon. At least she was spared that humiliation. “Is there anything else you absolutely got to have right now?”
“Go on with your duties. I’ll manage.”
The minute he walked away she remembered the firewood tied under the wagon in the cooney. Fanning her face with her hand, trying to calm herself, she looked at the fire pit, looked at the cooney, then cast a pleading glance at Luther.
He spread his hands in a gesture of frustration. “Alex, I can’t help.”
She refused to believe that he meant it until he turned and strode away from her, refused to concede that she was totally on her own until she saw the flat expression on the faces of Jack Caldwell and Ward Hamm. Sagging, she leaned against the wagon wheel.
At the back of her mind, she hadn’t accepted the rules. She had honestly believed that Luther and Ward would come to her aid. No man worthy of the name would stand idly by while a one-legged woman floundered in helpless need of assistance. She had counted on that.
She did not finally release this cherished fantasy until she saw Luther and Jack begin to construct their own noon camp. Even Ward busied himself with the supplies in his wagon, deliberately avoiding her eye.
No one was going to help her. She was alone in this.
For several minutes she didn’t move, couldn’t think. Luther had insisted the rules must be obeyed and so had Dal Frisco, and she had nodded and agreed. But she hadn’t believed it. She’d believed that compassion would outweigh the stupid rules. But that wasn’t going to happen.
“Now what are you doing? Watching the grass grow? Woman, you are already behind schedule,” Grady complained, walking up behind her.
“Grady! Thank heaven.” If she could have grabbed him without falling down, she would have. “The wood. I need the firewood.”
“Then get it. The water barrel sprung a leak and I need to fix it before we lose all your cooking water.” He headed for the tools in the box lashed to the side of the wagon.
“Damn!” Blinded by tears of frustration and near panic, she made a fist and struck the wheel. Her fist glanced off the iron rim and struck wood, and a splinter punctured the side of her hand. Yelping, she jerked backward, coming within one wobbly second of falling again. After pinwheeling her arm to regain her balance, she pulled out the splinter and inspected the blood trickling down her wrist. The puncture wasn’t deep, but it stung and bled, and she couldn’t recall where the medical box was or where she might find something to wrap her hand in. Meanwhile, the minutes relentlessly continued to tick by. Now, she was almost an hour behind schedule.
All right, she would ignore the fact that her cuff was soaking up blood and going the way of her ruined skirt. The firewood was the important thing.
Fetching it was a painstaking and humiliating process. She had to drop to the ground, crawl under the wagon and untie the ropes securing the sling. Then she tossed out the wood she needed and retied the ropes. Crawling back out, feeling helpless and foolish, she used the crutch to climb upright. Then, balancing as best she could, she picked up several pieces of wood, put them in her skirts, and hobbled to the fire pit trying not to drop any. Naturally, she left a trail of fallen kindling behind her.
By the time she finally got the fire going, aggravation made her fingers shake, and she wanted to scream. That’s when she realized she had not placed the pot hanger first like she was supposed to do. Without the pot hanger, she had nothing to hang the coffeepot on. And now, with the flames leaping, it would be a difficult and dangerous undertaking to set up the hanger. Lips trembling, she looked toward the observers’ camp. Their coffee was already brewed, and they were drinking it as they began preparations for their noon meal.
“Luther?” she called in a shaky voice. “I thought you intended to eat with us.”
He walked forward a few steps, then stopped, his expression pinched by the effort to stand aside while she struggled. “I’ll take my meals with the observers.”
So even an oblique appeal was not going to work. Thin-lipped and furious, she found the pot hanger, assembled it, then decided this task would best be managed from her chair instead of trying to balance on the crutch while she drove the ends into the ground. Thankfully, Grady had brought down her wheelchair without her having to ask.
She sank into it with a sigh of relief, taking the weight off of her trembling leg. Too late it occurred to her that transporting the wood would have been easier if she’d done it in her chair.
At once she discovered that rolling to the fire pit was not that easy. Now that spring rains had greened the range, the grass was growing thick and hard to push through. By the time she reached the fire pit, her arms trembled from the effort of pushing herself over rough ground, and she was wondering if in fact the chair was a better idea than the crutch would have been.
But that was a fine point to ponder at another time. The problem now was to set up the pot hanger without letting the flames scorch her fingers. Rolling as close to the fire pit as she dared, she leaned over the arm of the chair and pushed a leg of the hanger down through the burning firewood and then, arms shaking with the effort, she managed to thrust it securely into the ground. Now all she had to do was dredge up the energy to finish the task.
Because she wouldn’t be able to retrieve the crossbar if she dropped it into the flames, she had to make a very tight circle around to the other side of the fire pit, pushing the chair with one hand and holding on to the cross bar with the other. The heat from the fire and repeated failures brought sweat to her brow, and she felt a spreading wetness under her arms. Disgusting. She hated to sweat, believed it made her appear common.
Pressing her lips together, she struggled to maneuver her chair as close as she dared to the flames. When she finally, finally got herself into position, she rested a minute before she pushed this end of the pot hanger thr
ough the firewood and into the ground.
It was Grady who saved her life. She heard his shout and opened her eyes just as the flames flickering along her hem made a whooshing sound and leapt up her skirt toward her waist. Before she could scream or beat at the fire, Grady was there with a bucket of water.
He threw the water on her, spun, and raced back to the wagon for more. Sputtering, soaked from head to foot, Alex slapped frantically at the smoke wafting off her lap. Her heart slammed around in her chest and she thought her head would burst with fear.
Grady ran up and flung another bucket of water on her. Gasping, wiping at her eyes, Alex shoved back drenched tendrils of hair. Horrified, she stared down at herself. Her bodice and skirts were soaked, sticking to her skin, dripping on the ground. An acrid burned odor drifted from the holes in her skirt and in the first layer of petticoats.
Grady knelt beside the chair and waved his hands around like he wanted to raise her skirts but couldn’t bring himself to do it. “Are you burned?”
She pulled soggy material away from her knees, sending runnels of water into the dirt. “No, thank God!” She couldn’t bear to think how close it had been. “Thanks to your quick action, the fire didn’t burn through my underskirts.” But what if Grady hadn’t been here?
Snapping her head up, thrusting wet hair out of her eyes, she stared toward the other campsite. Luther, Jack Caldwell, and Ward stood like a tableau, coffee cups frozen partway to their lips, their postures rigid.
“Would you have let me burn to death?” Alex screamed. “Because you don’t want to interfere? Because of some stupid stupid stupid rules?” They stared back at her, not moving.
Then she dropped her face in sooty hands and burst into hysterical tears.
Grady let her cry while he finished placing the pot hanger then ground the coffee beans and set up the coffeepot, hanging it over the fire. Occasionally she heard him mutter, “Gol-dang it!” But he didn’t pat or comfort her like she expected him to.
The Best Man Page 12
