Paint the Hills Red

by Ron Schwab

  “Thank you. I’ll do just that.”

  Dan’s eyes followed her as she glided toward the house with a slight, but enticing, sway of the hips. Damn, Elizabeth Dunkirk. She knew he was watching. It was a good bet she knew what she was doing to him. He was vulnerable as hell right now; he would have to be wary of this witch, or she would cast a spell on him that would make him beg to sell his soul to the devil.

  Dan put up the stallion in the barn and watered and grained the horse. By the time he left the barn, Elizabeth Dunkirk had emerged from the house and was sailing across the ranch yard to meet him.

  “You made a quick tour,” he said. “Do you want to go back in and get the free lecture that goes with it?”

  “Oh, it’s too nice to be cooped up inside,” she said. “Let’s walk into the hills. Daddy says your place is the Garden of Eden of the Pine Ridge. I’d like to see for myself.” She linked her arm in his and tugged him toward the ponderosa-cloaked hills that backed the house.

  The Garden of Eden. And was Liz Dunkirk Eve incarnate? If so, he was damned if he wouldn’t mind being Adam right now. He had hoped to show her his paintings, though, and was rather disappointed that she had not shown more interest in his work. On the other hand, he admitted, he tended to take his work too seriously and to be a little professorial about it. He probably would have bored her to death.

  She seemed to guess what he was thinking. “I honestly did enjoy your paintings,” she said, “but I must confess I don’t know a great deal about art. I’ve been to galleries, but I never found them very exciting. I prefer real things and real people to paintings.”

  “Sometimes when you paint,” Dan said, “you see more of the real people and real things. You see things you didn’t realize were there before, and the challenge is to make others see them, too.”

  “That’s a nice thought,” she said, “but I’m afraid I wouldn’t have the patience to see those things. But I’m intrigued by a man who does and by a man who has the skill and the intellect to paint such things. Yes, you’re a very intriguing man, Daniel McClure . . . and you must be a lusty one.”

  He was taken aback for a moment, uncertain how to reply. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

  “Your paintings. The naked ladies and the other women. You must like women.”

  “Well, of course I like women. But I like to think that someone would see more than an artist's lust when they looked at my paintings.”

  She was silent as they strolled higher into the hills and finally inched their way to the top of the ridge that rimmed the valley. Dan helped her scale the tooth-like outcropping of rock that offered a natural vantage point from which they could survey most of the ranch.

  “Breathtaking,” she announced, leaning heavily against him. “Daddy was right. It is the most beautiful place in the whole Pine Ridge.” She pointed to the ragged break in the steep hills to the south. “That’s where Beaver Creek flows onto the Diamond D, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  The creeks were fed by tentacle-like fingers of water that swept along the valley floor and sliced through the lush green grass and meandered their way to the creek bed that snaked its way through the meadow.

  “And those are where the springs feed the creek?”

  “Yes, that’s right,” he said.

  “For some reason, springs break out all over this part of the valley.”

  She seemed very knowledgeable about this ranch, genuinely interested. Too knowledgeable? Too interested?

  “You can’t blame Daddy for wanting this,” she said, as they clambered down from the outcropping.

  “No, I can’t blame him,” Dan said, as they began working their way down a deer trail that twisted in the direction of the house. “Not for wanting it. I don’t blame him for trying to buy it as long as his methods are legal and ethical.”

  She was quiet as they continued their descent, until the trail began to widen and finally opened into a tiny grassy clearing that was set nest-like on a little mesa midway between the ridge crest and the ranch buildings below. She stopped abruptly there and whirled on him.

  “What did you mean when you said ‘legal and ethical’? About Daddy trying to buy your land?” Her eyes were ice blue now, the fine line of her jaw set firm.

  Dan could see she was angry, but she had not lost control of her temper. “I shouldn’t have said that . . . you’re a guest. I didn’t intend to accuse.”

  “But you’ve heard things about Daddy and the Diamond D, haven’t you?”

  “I’d be lying if I said no. Yes, people say your father wants a solid patch of Diamond D on the county map. That he’s obsessed with swallowing up all the small ranches that break up the Diamond D range. And especially that he plans to get my place and the Bar G . . . at any cost.”

  “That doesn’t mean he’d kill people for it.”

  “No, and I’m not convinced of that myself. But someone almost killed me, and they tried to kill Megan Grant. Somebody shot Ben Grant, and I’ve been told others died before I came here. And then last night a man named Jubal Haskell was murdered, and his ranch burned out. Did you know about that?”

  “Yes, I heard about it. Terrible thing. I had a wagon load of food and clothing sent over to Mrs. Haskell and her children. Daddy’s very generous with things like that.”

  “Did your father want the Haskell ranch?”

  “Yes, of course. I won’t deny that. The Diamond D surrounded it, but that’s not evidence that he had anyone killed. Not that Jubal Haskell didn’t need killing. He was a damned cow thief. Daddy put up with it because he felt sorry for Jubal’s kids.”

  “I see.”

  “But you don’t believe.”

  “It’s not that. I just don’t know, but I hope to find out soon. People usually don’t kill without a reason, and your father’s the only one who seems to have a reason . . . even though it’s not a valid one.”

  “Daddy couldn’t. He doesn’t even leave the house.”

  “He doesn’t? Why not?”

  “Hardly anyone knows. He can’t walk. He’s paralyzed from his waist down. His horse threw him a few years back. When you went to see my father, he remained seated behind the desk, didn’t he?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s the only place he’ll see people . . . in his study, behind the desk. That’s why he doesn’t like unnecessary visitors. He doesn’t want them to know. He’s afraid they’ll think he’s weak and take advantage of him.”

  “I can’t imagine anyone taking advantage of your father,” Dan said.

  “Clay Sutherly does.”

  “That’s a strange thing to say about your betrothed.”

  “I’m not engaged to marry Clay Sutherly. If I wanted to marry Clay, we’d have been married a long time ago. Daddy’s been pressing me for better than a year. The marriage is in Daddy’s and Clay’s heads. Daddy picked Clay out for me six or seven years ago while I was still attending school in the East. He thought Clay was smart enough and strong enough to hold the ranch and to build on what Daddy left me. You see, I’m just a woman.” She spat it out sarcastically.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I think you do. Daddy loves me. He’d give me anything. But he should have had a son. Daughters can’t take over a ranch and run a cattle empire. That’s what Daddy and men like him think anyway. I know the Diamond D forwards and backwards, and I’ve had to dig it out on my own. I’ve got business sense. I’m every bit as shrewd and hard-headed as my father, but he can’t see it. I’ve tried to broach the subject, but he just chuckles and tells me to buy a new bonnet or a new gown, just like he’d offer a child a piece of hard rock candy.”

  “I think your father underestimates his daughter,” Dan said.

  She clasped her hands behind her back and turned away and began pacing in front of Dan. “Damn right, he does. And if Clay Sutherly wasn’t around, I could convince Daddy. I know I could. What I said before, it’s true: Clay does take advantage of Daddy. Clay ru
ns the ranch. He takes his orders from Daddy, but then does what he damn well pleases. He thinks the ranch is already his, but he’s worried. Daddy’s failed a lot this past year, and Clay wants to get married . . . bad. Daddy’s made arrangements for Clay to manage the ranch when he dies, but Clay gets a share of the ranch only if we’re married. Daddy’s angry at me. He wants us to get married, too, before the summer’s out. I told him I would die first, that he just wanted me to be a broodmare for the grandchildren Clay would sire. I told Daddy I’d geld the bastard if he tried to touch me.”

  Dan smiled in spite of himself. She would do it, too. Damned, if she wouldn’t.

  “That’s how Clay sees me, too . . . as a broodmare. Ready to mount when he needs it. Somebody to drop a foal once a year.” She stopped mid-stride and whirled toward Dan. “If somebody at the Diamond D’s burning out ranches, having people murdered, it’s not Woodson Dunkirk. It’s Clay Sutherly. You can bet your ass on it.”

  “I’d like to hear more about Sutherly,” Dan said.

  She stared back at Dan silently, the ice in her eyes melting now, giving way to warm, still pools. God, she was beautiful. She was an enchantress. They could never be friends. He doubted if he could truly like her, much less love her. Still, grudgingly, he admired her spirit and her strength and was fascinated by her brashness. Above all, he wanted her.

  Slowly, Liz Dunkirk’s slender fingers moved to the top button of her shirt and unfastened it, displaying the provocative cleavage between ample white breasts. “I asked if you were a lusty man,” she said. “You never answered.”

  Dan stepped toward Liz Dunkirk and collected her in his arms, covered her lips with his, savoring the yielding softness of the body that pressed tight against him. Her fingernails dug into his shoulders, and she clung to him with eagerness leaving no doubt in his mind that her body was attuned to his, succumbing with his to the raging desires that tore mercilessly through them. She pulled him down into the bed of grass, and he became Adam, giving and taking, surrendering himself to the wiles of Eve in this Garden of Eden.

  14

  IT WAS LATE afternoon, and the fiery orange sun was sliced in half by the west ridge when they strolled hand in hand from the ponderosa and came out onto the ranch yard. They had almost reached the house before Dan saw the blond-bearded man who was staring at them from where he stood between a buckskin gelding and Liz Dunkirk’s black stallion. Reflexively, Dan released Liz Dunkirk’s hand and his own edged closer to his revolver.

  When Elizabeth Dunkirk caught sight of Sutherly, she smiled with feigned delight and waved at the Diamond D foreman. “Why, Clay,” she said, “fancy meeting you here. Did you come to see Mr. McClure’s paintings, too?”

  “If I did, I don’t think I’d find them up on the ridge,” said Sutherly, his voice surly, his eyes boring in on Dan.

  “Mr. McClure was just showing me his ranch. There’s a beautiful view from the ridge.”

  “I’ll bet.”

  “Now, Clay, don’t be pouty.”

  Crimson spread over Sutherly’s face. “It’s late. I’ve saddled your horse. Your old man will be worried sick.”

  She stopped not far from the horses. Dan could see that she had been compelled to rein in her temper and that now she was choosing her words carefully. “The old man’s name is Mr. Dunkirk,” she said, “and you would do well to remember that. And I assure you that Mr. Dunkirk will not be worried. He will take his supper alone and fall asleep shortly thereafter. In the morning, he will have no idea when we arrived home. And one further thing, Clay Sutherly, I do not need an escort in this county. I know the Pine Ridge, and I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself.”

  “Don’t be so sure. These are violent times.”

  “Horse shit,” she snapped. She turned to Dan, and to his surprise, reached up and pulled his head to her. She kissed him lightly on the cheek and whispered in his ear, “Kill him for me, Dan, please. Soon.” She stepped back and smiled, “Thank you, Dan, for a lovely afternoon. I enjoyed your paintings. I see so much of you in them.” She turned away and scurried to her horse.

  Dan looked up and met Sutherly’s glare. There was death written in those eyes. Like it or not, he might have to kill Sutherly. Especially if Elizabeth Dunkirk had her way. She was using him like a pawn on a chessboard. He had no doubt about it.

  As Sutherly and Liz Dunkirk galloped away, Dan wondered when he would see her again. His heart raced at the thought of it. Soon, he hoped.

  15

  A COOL MORNING breeze caressed Megan’s face as she cantered the pinto across the meadow that fringed the Bar G corral and catch pens. A sage hen cackled, and Megan heard the frantic fluttering of its wings off to her right as it escaped the gelding’s hooves. She no doubt had a nest close by, and Megan formed an image of the plump hen in her mind, her multi-hues of brown camouflaging her now as the torrid July sun started to bake the grass dry and cook away the green. No one had told her this. She knew it from the crisp rustling that the grass made against the horse’s legs as they swept through the meadow.

  The sun would be scorching later, but now it was a morning made for a ride. It was Sunday-morning peaceful. The nearest church was a good ten miles away, but somehow the horses and cattle and all of God’s creatures seemed to know Sunday morning was a time for quiet. She toyed with the notion of letting her pinto carry her into the hills but thought better of it. Nate would get a burr under his tail and head after her the minute he saw her riding away, and she wanted to be alone now. She liked Nate’s company and was very fond of him. In time, she might even marry him, like he had asked her to. She remembered him as slender and wiry, and boyishly handsome, decidedly more attractive than Dan McClure, she reminded herself. Why did she always compare every man to Dan McClure?

  She reined the pinto to the right, wheeled him around, and reversed her course, taking quiet satisfaction in the smoothness of the maneuver. Yes, she would travel the ridge on horseback again, drink it in with her remaining senses. Touch, smell, hear the things she could not see. She had a life to live, and she would not spend it groping her way within the confines of the ranch house.

  As she nudged the gelding across the meadow, she heard the thudding of a horse’s hooves angling toward her from the left and to the rear. It was Nate’s mare. She could tell by the horse’s rhythmic gait and the softness of its step. Megan slowed the gelding and then reined it to a halt as Nate Coates pulled even with her.

  “What is it, Nate?” she asked, trying to conceal the irritation in her voice.

  He hesitated. “You got a visitor.”

  “I’m in no mood for playing games, Nate. Who is it?”

  “Well, it’s that artist, the big fellow that took over Ike Hanson’s spread.”

  “Didn’t you tell him I was busy?”

  “Yep, I sure did. But he ain’t takin’ no. He’s waitin’ over by the corral. Said I could call you in, or he’d ride out himself.”

  “Tell him to go to hell,” she snapped.

  “I don’t think he’s going to leave.”

  “Oh, all right. Tell him I’ll be back in a minute. I want to take another swing past the windmill.” Without waiting for a reply, she dug her heels gently into the pinto’s flanks, and he lurched forward and raced away at full gallop. As she streaked across the prairie land, her sable tresses flying in the wind, Megan scolded herself for her curtness with Nate. He was so devoted to her, like a faithful collie: loyal and unquestioning and obedient. But she was so tired of being nursed and coddled like an orphan calf. If Sol and Nate had their ways, she would spend the rest of her life in a rocking chair with the two of them waiting on her hand and foot, slobbering over her like a couple of mama cows over a newborn.

  Her thoughts turned to Dan McClure. Why was he here? She had not talked to him since the morning she learned of her blindness, better than three months now. He had ridden over frequently after her injury, but she had steadfastly refused to see him. Finally, he had given up. But Sol conversed
with him regularly, almost daily, over at Dan’s place up until a few weeks earlier when he had stopped “sittin’ for a picture,” as he called it. Sol had told her that Dan thought she blamed him for her blindness. How could he be so stupid? He had saved her life, although for a time she had not been certain she was grateful for it.

  No, it was something else, but she could not quite put her finger on it. For some reason, she did not want Dan to see her when she was less than strong and totally independent. And, in a way, she was frightened of any friendship with Dan McClure. He was a complex man, a challenging man. But how could she understand him, learn all she wanted to learn about him if she could not see his paintings? For the key to Dan McClure was in his work and what he painted and how he painted.

  She heard the squeaking of the windmill and the sudden rush of water splashing into a tank off to her right. She brushed her right rein against the pinto’s neck; the gelding angled to the right, and they swept around the wooden tower and headed across the pasture toward the corrals. Megan gave the pony free rein, knowing he would carry her home.

  Soon, Megan could hear the whinnying and stomping of horses that told her they were nearing the corral. She slowed the pinto gradually into a walk.

  “Just whoa up, Meg,” came Nate’s voice from off to the right. “I’ll take your horse and help you down.”

  “No.” Her tone said it was a command. Megan could hear the blowing and nickering of other horses that were, no doubt, pressing their muzzles between the planks of the corral fence as they greeted the pinto, and she knew she was next to the corral when the pinto stopped on its own accord. She dismounted and, groping for the corral fence, tied the gelding there.