by Janet Dailey
"There's the break in the fence!" Casey pointed.
Directly ahead of them stood a tree beside the fence. Hard cold winters and hot dry summers had shorn it of its foliage and stripped it of its bark. The whiteness of its sun-bleached trunk stood out sharply against the green gold color of the rolling prairie. One large limb had been torn from the tree and now lay at its base, taking with it a section of fence as it fell.
Quickly Casey and Smitty secured their ropes around the branch, wrapping the free end around their saddle horns and towing it away from the fence. Once it was out of the way, they cleared away the tangle of snapped barbed wire. As they remounted and rode their horses through the gap, Smitty indicated the direction where he believed he had seen the Anchor Bar cattle.
The deceptively flat hills stretched out before them. Any depression could successfully hide a full-grown cow from view, or a horse and rider. Here and there, wind had eroded away the sturdy prairie grass from the side of a small hill, exposing the tan-colored ground that gave the Sand Hills their name. A meadowlark trilled out its "Hey, Jiminy Whittaker!" call while a sharp-tailed grouse burst into the air a few feet ahead of them.
A godforsaken land, Casey had heard it called by some people who stared at the vast expanse of sky and the unbroken rolling hills and cried out at the isolation it implied. But Casey heard the whisper of wind, the melodic calls of the birds and the quiet shuffle of her horse's hooves as it moved over the grass and sand. She loved to rise early in the morning and watch the sun penetrating the mists and the kaleidoscope of colors as the sun settled on the western horizon at the end of the day. This was her home; there was no loneliness. How could there be when she was surrounded by the people she loved and the sights and sounds that were set on this earth by God?
As the two riders topped the crest of a hill, they both saw the small group of cows grazing on the rich grass in the hollow. The white faces lifted warily as Casey and Smitty slowly approached the herd. Shep trailed silently behind them, his mouth opened in a happy grin as he panted from the warmth. His bright eyes studied the cows thoroughly as he waited very patiently for his mistress to signal to him to round them up.
"I count seven Anchor Bar brands," Casey spoke softly.
Smitty nodded agreement as they circled the herd and saw three more that had wandered off from the main group. Casey's hand swept out before them and Shep darted forward, snapping and biting at the cows as he began his work of bunching them together. The dog was a whirlwind, dashing and springing from one to another until they were all together in a loosely grouped circle. Now Casey and Smitty nudged their horses forward, separating the Anchor brands from the Bar S. Shep lay silently in the grass, moving only when an Anchor Bar cow threatened to join a retreating member of the Bar S.
"I swear that dog can read brands," Smitty declared, when the last cow had been cut away and they began to drive the ten head back toward the gap in the fence.
"He gives you an awfully eerie feeling sometimes," Casey agreed, smiling at the dashing black and tan dog racing alongside the cattle.
The pace back to the fence was brisker than the first. In half the time they were back and had driven the cattle on to the Gilmore ranch. Another hour was spent patching the broken strands of barbed wire so that the fence was once more secure.
"I've got a thermos of lemonade in the pickup," Casey invited as Smitty shoved a pair of pliers back in his saddlebag.
"And I can use it!" he exclaimed, wiping the perspiration from his forehead with the back of his hand.
"I'll race you back."
Casey didn't bother to accept his challenge verbally. She just grabbed the buckskin's reins and vaulted into the saddle with Smitty only a split second behind her on his mount. Her horse nearly jumped out from under her as she drove her heels into his flanks. Smitty's bay was as fast as her own fleet Tally. Most of the way back to the trailers they raced stride for stride, dodging the clumps of yucca bushes or jumping them when they had to save time. But Casey's lighter weight eventually forecast the winner and she began to draw away as they neared the pasture gate. When they reined in their horses, she had won by more than a length.
"Loser cools the horses!" she announced with a gleeful hoot.
"As long as the winner pours out the lemonade, I don't mind." Smitty took her reins with a grin.
Casey rejoined him a few minutes later, exchanging a cup of cold lemonade for the reins of her horse, then fell in step with him as they made the slow circle to cool their heated horses.
"I was telling dad last night about your father's arrangement for a ranch man while he's in the hospital. When dad plagued me for more specific details which I couldn't supply, he called the hospital long distance last night. Do you know who's coming out here?" Smitty asked, looking down at the grim-faced girl walking beside him.
"No, I don't. And I don't care," she retorted, keeping her face expressionless.
"Flint McCallister." Smitty paused, letting the name sink in. Casey continued walking, staring blankly ahead of them without commenting on his statement. "You know who he is, don't you?"
"I can't say that I do." Her reply was cool, letting him know of her dislike of the subject.
"The McCallister Land and Cattle Company of Ogallala! Every cattleman in the midwest has heard of them."
"Oh, them." Casey's nose turned up disdainfully.
"Don't try to tell me you're not impressed by the news," Smitty persisted. "You've heard talk yourself of how old man McCallister and his son could have taken the whole Sand Hills area and acquired the biggest cattle empire in the United States during the drought years. Instead he went out of his way to help every rancher he could, even to extending them credit when he couldn't afford it himself. He very nearly went under along with some of the others. Flint McCallister is his grandson." He noticed the grudging expression of admiration on Casey's face. "Don't you remember a couple of years ago when Flint McCallister took part in that exchange program and spent a year in Australia studying their methods of ranching in the Outback on—what do they call their spreads—stations?"
"I remember," Casey muttered. "It's really going to be quite a comedown for him to be in charge of our measly sixteen thousand acres."
"Good grief, Casey! Can't you stop being so bitter and realize the opportunity that you're going to have!" Smitty exclaimed. "Think of how much you can learn from this man while he's here! Why, it's rumored that his father is stepping down this winter and giving Flint complete control of the company."
"And how can you be so blind!" Casey hurled her angry words at him. "Can't you just see how the 'great man' is going to lord it over us with his high and mighty airs? You're looking at one girl who isn't going to be bossed around by that know-it-all!"
Smitty compressed his lips grimly. It was absolutely useless arguing with her. She could be so bull-headed and obstinate that it would only lead to more harsh words. Instead he determinedly led his horse over to the trailer and loaded him up, knowing that the slightly muffled sounds indicated that Casey was doing the same.
"I'll follow you to the ranch and pick up that motor that broke down," he said curtly before climbing into the cab of his truck.
Casey nodded an angry agreement, shooting the bolt that held the trailer's loading chute in place.
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Chapter Four
FLINT MCCALLISTER—Flint McCallister—Flint McCallister! Casey felt if she heard that name one more time, she'd explode. The entire weekend that name had been on the lips of everyone who had visited her father at the hospital. Her father had become more and more pleased with the thought that this man was going to run his ranch. He seemed to take pride that someone as well known and respected as Flint McCallister was the new boss man for the Anchor Bar. The enthusiasm of his fellow friends and ranchers added to his satisfaction. The awe and reverence in their voices when they spoke his name had disgusted Casey. They were referring to him as if he were the President of the United State
s, a famous film star and God all rolled into one.
Johnny had come down Sunday. He had been particularly elated by the news since it removed the feelings of guilt that had been plaguing him. Casey had been right when she had decided there was no use appealing to her brother to prevent the new man from coming. Johnny was one hundred percent in favor of it. Even Mark had caught the contagious rush to praise this paragon called Flint McCallister. He had beleaguered Casey on the drive home Sunday with their mother with all the tales he had heard about him. Her mother was the only one who noticed her grim silence as Casey fought to control her rising temper. But there was no comfort in meeting the sympathetic glance. She knew too well that Lucille Gilmore was happy that a man was coming to run the Anchor Bar.
This morning Casey had been in her father's office using the phone to check with Smitty about the broken pump for the number ten well. It was called an office since it housed the ranch's records and a desk. It had been intended as a dining room, situated just off the kitchen, but it had never been used as such. It had just naturally become the ranch office where John Gilmore had installed his gun cabinet, decorated the walls with his hunting trophies and his favorite easy chair. In recent years an old day bed was added as the bookwork increased and more and more late hours were kept by her father in that room.
Just as Casey had hung up the telephone receiver, her mother entered the room, her arms loaded with dust rags, mops and polish. Casey hadn't really paid a great deal of attention to her until she was halted in the doorway by her mother's words.
"There are some fresh sheets and blankets on the hallway table, Casey. Would you bring them in?"
"What for?" She watched her mother remove the coverlet from the daybed.
"So I can change the bedding," her mother replied. There was a slight pause as Mrs. Gilmore looked dubiously at the exposed mattress. "On second thoughts, why don't you take the mattress outside and air it for me instead?" Her hand reached out in an absentminded gesture. "And you'd better lend me a hand to bring that cupboard of your grandmother's in from the bunkhouse. We'll need Sam to help with that. But you and I can manage that small dresser in the attic." Her mother's eyes drifted around the room in studied concentration as Casey slowly realized what was happening. "I think we can arrange the furniture so that it will fit in satisfactorily and still give him plenty of room for his clothes."
"You mean he is going to say here in this room!" Casey exploded. "What's wrong with the bunkhouse where all the rest of the hired help stay? Why does he have to live in the house with us?"
"Mr. McCallister is not exactly hired help, Cassandra." There was a sharp reprimand in Lucille Gilmore's quiet voice. She only used Casey's given name when she was particularly upset with her daughter.
"But this is dad's room!" Angry, tears pricked her eyes as Casey realized that this Flint McCallister was not only usurping her father's position but his personal office as well. Venomous, biting and hateful words rose in her throat, only to be stopped by the pitying and reproving look in her mother's eyes.
"I thought you'd got over this feeling of antagonism. We're very lucky to be getting a man so knowledgeable," she said firmly to her angry daughter.
"I hate him!" Casey's words were drawn through her clenched teeth in a whisper trembling with the violence of her emotion.
"Cassandra Gilmore!" The shocked horror in her mother's tone spun, Casey around and sent her speeding out the door. She was not going to hear another lecture on the paragon Flint McCallister.
She shouted to Sam at the barn that he was wanted at the house before she hopped into the cab of the blue and white pickup and slammed the door shut. As the wheels churned up the sand in response to the sudden demand for acceleration, Casey had a brief picture of Sam walking to the house porch, respectfully removing his hat as Mrs. Gilmore walked out, her hand shading her eyes while she watched Casey speed down the lane. She didn't remember turning on to the graveled road and was only half conscious of the squealing of her tires as she turned south on the highway. Not until she reached the turn-off for the Agate Fossil Beds did her rage burn away to leave bitter ashes of suppressed anger. She braked the pickup to a stop near the bridge over the Niobrara River, made a U-turn and headed back for the ranch.
Flint McCallister indeed! She could just picture him dressed in one of those beautifully tailored western suits with a fancy white Stetson hat and soft leather boots of kangaroo hide. He'd be wearing one of those fancy string ties with a diamond-studded clasp in a longhorn design. She'd heard about these big cattle barons before, of their loud bragging talk about the money they'd made and how much they'd lost in weekend excursions to Las Vegas. More than likely this McCallister's father had been glad to send him off to Australia for a year so he wouldn't go through the family fortune. She had known a few of those spoiled grandsons of early pioneers. This man had probably learned long ago how to throw his family name around. It was no wonder that people abroad get the impression that Americans are a loud and bragging group, Casey thought bitterly, because of rotten apples like Flint McCallister in the barrel that's shipped overseas.
In her side vision, she spotted a small herd of pronghorn antelope grazing in a pasture near the road. She tooted her horn, watching their delicate heads raise before they took off with bounding leaps. Her speedometer read nearly sixty and, as they raced alongside the fence, they still kept abreast of her until they finally veered away. The white, targetlike circles of their rumps were in view for only a few seconds before they disappeared behind a hill.
Casey was just cresting a hill when she turned her attention back to the highway. Suddenly there in front of her was a horse trailer and a pickup going at a much slower speed. She had two choices, to slam on the brakes and hope she didn't run into it from the rear, or to pass it. In the split second that it took her to glance ahead to see the highway stretching clear of any traffic save the vehicle ahead of her, Casey turned the wheel out and stepped on the accelerator to ensure her passing the pickup and trailer cleanly before the next hill came up. She had no doubt in her ability as a driver, having started her lessons when she was nine, driving the ranch's tractor and graduating to the pickup as soon as her legs were long enough to reach the floorboards.
There was a small smile of satisfaction on her face as she passed the pickup with plenty of room to spare before the hill loomed before her. The deafening roar of wind from her open windows filled the cab, giving her an exhilarating feeling of victory so that she didn't slacken her speed. On the downhill slope the needle crept to eighty. Without warning, Casey heard a sickening thud at the same time that the steering wheel was nearly wrenched out of her hands. A blowout! With all her strength, she held the wheel on a straight course, removing her foot from the accelerator and slowly applying the brake.
The pickup finally rolled to a halt on the shoulder of the road. Her arms and legs were trembling so badly that she couldn't move. She just rested her head against the steering wheel, mentally chiding herself for speeding, and at the same time trying to cheer herself up that for once the spare tire was in good condition. In the next instant her door burst open and she was staring into the angriest pair of stormy gray eyes she had ever seen. For one ridiculous moment she was reminded of the dark, rolling thunderclouds that sometimes covered the Sand Hills' skies.
"You crazy, idiotic—What was the idea, going that fast? What were you trying to do, kill yourself!! You damned females driving like that are a menace to every sane driver on the road!"
"Well, thanks a lot," Casey jeered, her own short temper rearing up to strike back at this callous stranger. "But no, I'm not hurt. It was kind of you to ask."
"It's usually the other guy that is," the man replied, undaunted by her sarcastic rejoinder. "Where's your tire jack?"
"I'm perfectly capable of changing my own tire," Casey answered, pushing her way out of the cab to reach back behind the seat for the jack. With the disassembled tool in her hand, she gave him a haughty look in return for his of a
rrogant amusement and mocking disbelief before stalking around the pickup to the right front wheel.
She didn't attempt to hide her glowering expression as she heard his footsteps following her. She had the jack assembled in seconds and quickly raised the front end of the pickup truck. She began to unscrew the nuts holding the wheel of the fiat tire in place. The first one popped loose immediately, but the second one refused to budge. Casey could feel the stranger's eyes watching her. Unwilling color crept into her cheeks as she hit it to try to knock it free. Her palm stung sharply with the blow, but the nut refused, despite all her hard efforts, to budge.
Before she could stop him, he had pushed her out of the way.
"I can do it!" she protested angrily.
"So I see," he said as he deftly hit the handle of the wrench and unscrewed the nut. "If you want to be useful, you can get the spare tire."
Casey's fists doubled up in anger as she went to retrieve the spare. His authoritative tone ruffled her hair the wrong way. By the time she returned, he had the flat tire removed and expertly rolled the spare in place. For the first time Casey had the opportunity to study the man who had so unwelcomely forced his assistance on her.
The straw cowboy hat was set well back on his head, revealing thick brown hair interlaced with burnished red highlights. The profile was strong and masculine from the smooth forehead and straight nose to the square-cut jaw and finely honed chin. His eyebrows were dark like his hair and the left seemed to be perpetually arched in mockery. And his eyes were so dark a gray that in the shadows they nearly appeared black. His skin was deeply tanned from many hours in the sun, making a sharp contrast to the white shirt he wore. Casey remembered that he had been quite tall in that brief moment that she had stood beside him, six feet or perhaps an inch or two more. Long and lean, she thought, studying the muscular spread of his back and the slim-hipped and well-worn Levis.
