by Janet Dailey
"There you are." He rose to his feet, went over, released the jack and disassembled it before handing it back to her. There was the barest hint of a smile on his face and two creases that could have been called dimples on any other person, but on him, Casey felt, they emphasized the sarcastic mockery in his eyes.
She watched him effortlessly place the flat tire in the back of the pickup while she quietly stowed the jack away.
"And you're very welcome, too," he drawled when Casey failed to thank him for his help.
"I never asked you to help me," she retorted.
"My mistake." He touched his hat in mock respect. "I won't make it again. Drive a little slower. Next time you might not be so lucky."
Casey jumped quickly into the truck, turning the ignition on hurriedly. She grinned into the side mirror as she trod on the accelerator and drove away. Nobody told her how to drive!
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Chapter Five
AFTER SHE HAD put some distance between herself and the pickup and horse trailer, Casey slowed down to a more moderate speed. Not for anything would she have admitted to that infuriating cowboy that the blowout had frightened her a little. Why did it seem as if the whole world was against her just because she was a female? Even he had made a derogatory remark about idiot females. It was no wonder that there was a woman's liberation movement!
The truck's pace when it was finally turned up the lane that led to the house was considerably slower than when it had left. Casey drove it over to the ranch's fuel drums to fill the nearly depleted gas tank. She noticed Sam at the corral, his gentle hands calming one of the yearlings he had begun to halter break. Evidently her mother had completed all the various shiftings of furniture to prepare for the arrival of Mr. Flint McCallister. Once the tank was filled, Casey drove the truck over to the one big shade tree in the yard and parked it. Shep appeared from his wanderings to welcome her home with suitable enthusiasm.
Casey had just put one foot on the porch step to enter the house when she heard the sound of another vehicle coming up their lane. For the first few minutes a dust cloud obscured it from her vision as it rounded the curve of the hill. Shep's acute hearing failed to recognize the motor's sound as any that had been to the ranch before. The long hair on his back raised up as he bravely raced forward to challenge the intruder.
Her hands moved to rest on her lips in a disgusted and angered stance as Casey recognized the pickup truck and trailing horse van. The curve of her mouth turned down in a grim line. The pickup braked to a stop in front of the house and the tall stranger who had helped her change the tire hopped out, undaunted by the ferocious warning from Shep.
"It wasn't necessary for you to follow me," Casey spat out sarcastically. "I was quite capable of making it back without your assistance."
"This is the Gilmore ranch, isn't it?" There was a husky quality to the low, baritone voice that carried a commanding tone.
"Yes, it is. But if you're looking for work, you can just climb right back in your truck and move on, because we aren't hiring," Casey replied sharply. "And if we were, we wouldn't want any drugstore cowboys."
Their two pairs of eyes clashed in silent challenge while Shep growled menacingly at the stranger. Even though the anger was definite in the man's gray eyes, Casey was surprised to see a glint of amusement as if she were a kitten trying to prevent a mountain lion from crossing her path. This stranger was nothing more than a common trespasser, Casey thought with undisguised contempt.
"Did I hear a car drive in?" her mother's voice asked a second or two before the screen door to the house swung open. Before Casey had a chance to reply, Lucille Gilmore saw the stranger standing in front of the snarling dog. Her hands clapped together sharply as she called the dog away and cast her daughter a scolding glance. The stranger politely removed his cowboy hat, revealing again the thick brown hair which occasionally mirrored the sun's fire.
Mrs. Gilmore?" He stepped forward.
"Yes, yes, I am. What can we do for you?" Her mother's melodic voice instantly revealed the open-armed friendliness that was so natural to her.
"My name is McCallister, Flint McCallister."
The announcement took both of them by surprise. But it was Casey's reaction that he was watching. Her hands slid off her hips while her squared shoulders sagged in disbelief. If her mouth had dropped open, her astonishment couldn't have been more obvious.
"We didn't expect you until the middle of the week" her mother was saying, while Casey continued staring at the stranger who bore no resemblance at all to the Flint McCallister she had imagined.
"I hope I haven't inconvenienced you"
"Not at all. I just took some homemade bread out of the oven and the coffee pot is always on. Won't you come in?" Lucille Gilmore smiled.
"I'd like to take care of my horse first." He motioned toward the trailer. "Then I'd be happy to."
"My daughter, Cassandra, will show you where you can stable him," her mother offered, much to Casey's disgust. For one thing her mother had used that hated given name of hers and second because Casey wasn't the least bit interested in showing this man anything around the ranch. However she was in no position to disagree.
Her rebellious eyes met his amused glance for a brief instant before Casey moved away from the steps toward him. The sound of the screen door closing told her that her mother had gone back into the house. Her gaze remained fixed on the ground as she walked to the rear of the trailer where the stranger Flint McCallister had already disappeared. All the antagonism she had felt for the man McCallister before she had met him and for the stranger who had so arrogantly thrust his help on her had suddenly been rolled together into one giant ball of hatred. Her eyes were two bright pieces of coal, throwing off dark sparks as he led his horse out of the trailer.
Any other time Casey would have fallen in love with the horse. It was a blue black Appaloosa, with only its rump carrying a blanket of white to exhibit the circular spots of black. Now all she could think about was that anyone could have an animal like that if they had the money to buy one. If she had thought about it before, Casey was sure she would have picked a horse like this for McAllister to own, a flashy and showy mount to draw attention to himself.
"I imagine you'll want a stall to keep him in," were the only words she could say aloud. "Our ranch horses just run-loose in the corral with a shed for shelter."
"He's a stallion. I prefer to have him penned separately," Flint McCallister replied, his tone just as short and to the point as Casey's. "A stall won't be necessary."
"Sam, our hired man, can fix up something for you." She motioned towards the barn. "He's working with some of the yearlings this morning."
The Appaloosa followed docilely at the end of the lead rope as they walked toward the building. Sam was leaning against one of the corral posts, a homemade cigarette dangling out of the corner of his mouth as he talked softly to the yearling colt standing beside him. Casey never liked to interrupt these intimate sessions when the colt's ears were perked, hastening intently to every word that came from Sam. There was no need to let him know they were standing on the other side of the corral because Sam would already know. She glanced at Flint out of the corner of her eye, half expecting him to show impatience. He wasn't. He was watching with the same rapt attention that she usually did as the wizened cowboy performed his magic on the young horse. Finally Sam straightened and led the horse to the pasture gate, removed the lead rope and swatted the horse on the rump as it sprang through toward the open field.
When Sam turned back toward them, Casey watched his face eagerly, anxious to see his reaction to the new boss man. Whatever Sam thought as he shook the hand extended to him after Casey's introductions was securely hidden behind his ageless face. The meeting of the two men was over in a matter of minutes with Sam walking away leading the Appaloosa. The toe of her boot dug into the sand as Casey turned reluctantly toward the house. She had hoped to rid herself of McCallister's company by pawning hi
m off on Sam. She had been sure that he wouldn't allow Sam to care for his valuable horse without him watching. But Flint turned with her.
"I saw your father this morning. We went over quite a few things, but I'm going to be grateful for your help over these next few weeks, Cassandra."
Casey gave him a malevolent glance. What was she supposed to do, grovel at his feet for throwing her a little bit of candy when the whole piece should have been hers?
"It's kind of you to say so." Her lips curled in bitter sarcasm. "Especially to a female." She ignored the raised eyebrow. "Would you tell mother that I'm going into Harrison to get the tire fixed. I'll have lunch there."
Casey wheeled abruptly away. Let the others make him welcome, she thought bitterly. She wasn't going to; there were going to be no false words from her. He was an interloper, unwanted and distrusted.
As she turned the truck toward the lane, she saw him staring after her. She could see by his stance the rigid anger at her rudeness. Yet his head was tilted slightly to the side in what seemed like curious amusement.
RETURNING FROM TOWN, Casey met Smitty en route to her ranch. He honked his horn and motioned toward the rear bed of his truck. She had a fleeting glimpse of a motor sitting in the back. He had evidently fixed the pump motor for the number ten well. She waved for him to follow her and set her course for the track leading off their lane to the number ten well.
"What are you looking so glum about today?" Smitty asked as he unloaded the motor to restore it to its former position.
"He's here," Casey said meaningfully, a serious-frown marring her features.
"McCallister? Flint McCallister?" He exhaled slowly in a silent whistle as he paused in his efforts. "Now that you've met the big boss man, what do you think of him?"
"He's not big," she snorted. "He's just tall, that's all." In despair, she turned away and leaned against the pickup's fender. "Oh, Smitty, he's even worse than I imagined!"
Gently Smitty coaxed her into explaining her statement. All the while she told him about the meeting on the highway, he maintained an outward calm, his hands busy fastening the motor in place. He could hear the trembling dismay in her voice at the impotence of her anger toward Flint McCallister. Smitty knew how Casey hated anyone to watch her when she succumbed to the more feminine side of her nature, treating it as a form of cowardice.
"It was just horrible!" she ended in a defiant flare of temper. "He treated me as if I was a feather-brained female without an ounce of sense. You can just imagine what he thinks of a woman running a ranch! I could tell what an autocrat he was when he so patronizingly asked for my help!"
"Now how do you know that's how he felt?" Smitty accused, coming to stand beside her. "Why can't you accept the fact that the man wants your help? You're the one who has a paranoid inferiority complex."
"I do not!"
"Then why do you take every comment as a personal slur at your sex?" Smitty smiled to take the sting out of his words.
"That is not true! How did this situation come about in the first place? Because I wasn't a man!" Casey trembled in anger. "That's why dad had to hire someone else to come out here—to please those male chauvinist pigs who don't think a woman is capable of running a ranch! And that…that man agrees with them. I can tell."
"You're as open-minded as a bigot." Smitty shook his head in despair. "Take me back and introduce me to this tyrant who's taken over your ranch."
"With pleasure."
But Casey didn't have an opportunity to do so. When they returned to the ranch, Mrs. Gilmore informed Casey, a little sharply, that Mr. McCallister had gone on a self-conducted tour of the property.
"It was really your place to show him around, Casey," her mother reprimanded.
Despite the rebellious glint in her eyes, Casey did lower her gaze guiltily. Lucille Gilmore's gentle reproof made pinpricks of discomfort at her childish behavior. Although Casey was loath to admit she had been in error, she did manage a mumbled apology.
"You don't need to apologize to me," Mrs. Gilmore said, "but to Mr. McCallister."
"When will he be back?" Casey asked grimly.
"I told him supper would be at six."
"Well, I can't stay that long," Smitty stated. "I may stop back this evening to meet Casey's new boss man." A lopsided grin was turned teasingly on Casey, who wrinkled her nose in answer. "Walk me to the truck?"
"WHAT'S HE LOOK LIKE?" Mark persisted, hanging over the side of the manger where Casey was milking their cow, Maisy.
"Oh, I don't know. He's tall, probably six foot one or two, taller than Johnny. She tried to stem her growing exasperation over her brother's questions. "Good looking in a sarcastic and conceited sort of way. What does it matter what he looks like?"
Mark shrugged off her question. "How old is he?"
"How should I know? I didn't ask for his vital statistics."
"Ah, come on. Take a guess?"
"In his early thirties, then." Casey slapped the cow on its side as she moved the bucket away and rose from her stool.
"He sounds interesting." Mark smiled at the answering grimace on his sister's face when she handed him the milk pail.
"Good grief, Mark, you act as if he's Paul Newman! He's just the conceited, arrogant son of a wealthy rancher who's playing at being a cowboy!" Casey retorted. The sound of a vehicle in the yard was accompanied by Shep's frantic barking. "That's probably the great man now."
Mark started for the door, slowing his pace when Casey reminded him not to spill the milk. She tarried in the barn as long as she could, fussing with the horses that Mark had already grained before finally heading toward the house. It was nearly six o'clock. And when her mother said supper would be ready at six, it was. Her delaying tactics had evidently worked, for when she finally stepped into the kitchen there was no sign of Flint McCallister. Casey quickly set to work, washing her hands before helping her mother place the hot dishes on the table. Seconds later Mark walked into the room, directly followed by Flint McCallister.
Casey took pains to keep her glance from sliding toward him. Inside she felt her anger, frustration and self-pity warring against each other. Yet all her senses were keenly tuned to his presence. The scent of soap and shaving lotion mingled with the odour of roast beef, while out of the corner of her eye she could see the crisp white shirt contrasting with the darkness of his hair still glistening wetly from a shower. She heard the scrape of the chair as he seated himself at the table and the clear, rich tone of his voice as he patiently, but interestedly, answered Mark's questions.
When all the dishes were on the table, Casey had no option but to seat herself. The only vacant chair was on his right. She managed a polite smile to go vaguely in his direction, knowing full well that the falseness showed in her eyes. His own gray eyes captured her gaze before he nodded condescendingly in acknowledgment. There was an answering aggressive thrust to her chin as she passed the potatoes to him. Casey was sure her silence didn't go unnoticed by anyone at the table, but her brother Mark's questions were endless, filling the void that she created.
"Tell us about Australia," Mark urged, shoveling a large portion of potatoes onto his plate despite the reproving glance from his mother. "What are the cattle ranches like down there?"
"The two ranches I visited were both in central Australia, the Outback," Flint answered amiably. "The land there is basically flat and arid with little vegetation. The actual work isn't much different from what we do here. Mostly it was a matter of adjusting to the different terms they use. Ranches are called 'stations'. Roundups are called 'musters' and because of the reverse seasons take place in the spring instead of the fall. The biggest difference is that they don't finish their cattle like we do on corn and grains. Consequently when you order a steak, the meat isn't as tender as you're accustomed to here in the States, although it does have a good flavor."
"Did you see a lot of kangaroos?"
Casey glanced at Flint with a look that plainly dared him to continue monopolizing the c
onversation with his exploits. His jaw tightened perceptibly at her gaze even as he turned back toward Mark with an indulgent and, Casey was forced to admit, gentle expression.
"Yes, quite a few, but they're considered a nuisance. There's also quite a few wild turkey and wild pigs. The pigs that I saw looked plump enough for a barbecue, but Benedict, the station owner, assured me that they were too diseased to eat." There was no mistaking the rapt look of interest on Mark's face and Flint continued, "The most unwelcome form of wild life is the dingo."
"That's a breed of wild dog, right?" Mark interrupted, eager to show off his own knowledge however meager it was. His attention was all on Flint.
"They breed with domestic dogs, which makes them uncannily intelligent and hard to catch. They travel in packs, roaming wide areas, attacking calves and weaker stock. You could compare them in nuisance value to the coyote, although a dingo is much more vicious and fiercer in combat."
The meal seemed to pass swiftly as Flint McCallister continued to relate happenings during the year he was in Australia. In spite of herself, Casey discovered she was just as interested as her mother and brother. During the short space of time it took to consume their supper she had learned more about Australia by Flint's comparisons to life as she knew it in Nebraska than she had ever learned in world geography class in school. But she maintained an expression of studied disinterest.
"Well, Mrs. Gilmore," Flint said, draining the last of his coffee from the cup, "that was a delicious meal."
"This family operates on first names, Mr. McCallister," Lucille Gilmore inserted, a genuine smile lighting her face. "Call me Lucille."
