by Janet Dailey
The warmth of Smitty's arms and the darkness of the coming night finally lulled Casey into a state of semi-sleep. Not until the steady rhythm of the car slackened its pace did she become aware of her surroundings.
"Did you want me to run you on home now, Smitty?" Flint half-turned in the seat.
"I'll…I'll drive him on home from the house." Casey stifled a yawn while straightening in her seat.
"It's after ten now. We were going to get an early start in the morning to cut that hay." His tone sounded casual enough, but there was just enough doubt in it to upset Casey.
"Don't worry. I've been up later than this and still got up at the crack of dawn." The disguised criticism woke Casey completely and she didn't spare her use of sarcasm.
"Suit yourself."
They had made the turn on to the graveled lane to the ranch house. In minutes the station wagon was halted beneath the yard light. The good-nights were said speedily as Casey kissed her mother, spared Mark a cheery wish for a nice night and smiled stiffly at Flint before she slid behind the driver's seat so recently vacated by him.
"See that she drives carefully." Flint raised a one-finger salute to Smitty. His arrogantly dismissive gaze rested briefly on Casey.
Three-quarters of an hour later she was back. Except for the front porch light, the house looked dark. As quietly as she could, Casey crept into the house. There was a sliver of light showing beneath the office door now serving as Flint's bedroom and working quarters. One of the floor boards under the linoleum creaked loudly as she attempted to sneak past. Immediately the room was bathed in light, except where Flint's silhouette blocked it.
"You didn't have to wait up for me." She was angry, but that wasn't the reason her cheeks flooded with a red stain. It was the way his eyes studied her face so thoroughly just as if Smitty's kisses had been marked on her lips with indelible ink.
"I didn't." The muscles in his jaws twitched. "Yes, I did wait up for you. I've seen a sample of your driving. Besides, I had paper work to catch up on."
"Your concern is touching and unwanted. Good night, Mr. McCallister." His unwarranted criticism left a bitter taste in her mouth that rubbed off on her words.
But Flint shook his head in a mixture of anger and exasperation before closing his door.
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Chapter Seven
THE DAY HAD BEEN unseasonably hot even for the first of June. Casey swore that the temperature had reached over the one hundred mark long before midday. She sighed heavily, wondering if it had really been the sun beating down on her head all day or the futility of her own anger that had sapped her self-confidence. She turned the leather band on her wrist to look at her watch. If it was any consolation, it was only four o'clock, and the last of the hay had been cut. She rubbed the back of her neck, stiff with the tension that had been building up these last three days.
In previous years she had enjoyed haying time, hard work and all. As far as Casey was concerned, there wasn't a more pleasing aroma than the smell of fresh-cut hay. But this time—her lips pressed firmly together—this time she hadn't even noticed it. All because of that autocratic Flint McCallister. Every order he had given had grated her nerves until they were raw. It didn't matter what she had been doing, she had felt his eyes watching her, ready to pounce on the slightest showing of female ineptitude. But she had shown him. She had been up and about before anyone else, stayed later in the fields than anyone else, and every aching muscle in her body could attest to it. Now all she wanted to do was get away. Her legs wearily climbed the front porch steps.
"Mom!" She pushed open the screen door into the kitchen.
"Right here, dear." Lucille Gilmore turned from the stove to her daughter. "Are you all done? You certainly look exhausted."
"Would you throw some food in a bag for me? I'm going down to the pond." Casey tried to put lightness in her voice, only to have the frayed edges show.
Her mother studied her thoughtfully. "Yes, of course I will." More gently, "You still haven't reconciled yourself to Flint yet, have you?"
Casey glanced guiltily at her mother. Parents had no right to be able to read their children's minds so well. Instead of replying, she announced that she was going up to her room to change.
When she returned downstairs there was a paper bag sitting on the table and a thermos of lemonade beside it. A fight smile curved Casey's lips at her mother's undemanding thoughtfulness. She hurried out the door to her already saddled horse, carrying the food and drink and a small telescoping fishing rod.
Later, along the sandy shore line of the small pond, Casey set up her camp, her horse tethered in the rich grass near by. The stones from previous fires were still gathered in their protective circle around the darkened ashes. Dry twigs and branches from the cottonwood trees lay alongside. In a few minutes she had a small fire started, her fishing line in the pond waters and was sitting on her saddle blanket, her knees drawn up close to her chest so her chin could rest on them. Her eyes burned with bitter tears of unshed frustration. She couldn't admire the hawk circling in the brilliant blue sky.
She wasn't going to give in to these childish tears, Casey vowed. Even as she sniffed back a sob, she swore anew that Flint McCallister was not going to get under her skin. But it wasn't really a matter of him so much as it was that she was standing alone against him. First her family had deserted her, then Smitty and now Sam. How was she supposed to fight him alone.
With a groan of irritation, Casey heard the sound of a horse approaching. If Mark has followed me here, she thought, I'll brain him! He should be out trailing after his hero. She rubbed her eyes quickly to wipe away the water that had gathered.
"Catching anything?" It wasn't Mark. It was Flint.
Inside her there was an explosion of anger, erupting with volcanic force as she bounded to her feet.
"Do you have to follow me everywhere!" Casey screamed. "Why can't you just leave me alone!"
"I saw the smoke from your fire. I had no idea you were out here, so the first thing that occurred to me was that there might have been a grass fire started." The tightly controlled voice should have warned Casey, but it didn't. And neither did the muscle twitching along the side of his jaw.
"When you saw it wasn't a grass fire, you could have ridden home again." Her whole body trembled with anger.
She was conscious of him striding toward her, but not until he got close did she see the anger in his face. His eyes resembled the hard, gray stone of his namesake and looked equally capable of throwing off sparks. His hand clamped on to her wrist as he wrenched her around and pushed her forward.
"Do you see that?" Casey's eyes followed his pointing finger, unwillingly obeying the uncompromising voice. She stared blankly at the thistlelike plant at her feet and the snow-white blossom that topped it.
"That?" her derisive voice asked, staring again at the flower that, except for its whiteness, resembled a poppy.
"Go and pick the blossom for me," Flint ordered.
"Are you crazy?" She stared at him unbelievingly. "That's a prickle poppy! There's thorns all over the stem." Casey didn't like the hard line of his jaw or the feeling that the lean muscular body towering above her was held in check by a very tenuous thread, but she didn't back down from her belligerent stand.
"And I've had to put up with your thorns for ten days, my little prickle poppy called Casey! I didn't ask for this job any more than you asked for your father to be injured. But I'm here and I'm going to stay here!" He hadn't released her wrist and his fingers were biting into the bone. But it wasn't the physical pain that was causing the shiver of fear. It was the ominously quiet way Flint was talking.
"And I'm counting the days until you're gone, too!" she retorted, her voice cracking ever so slightly.
"Your father may have taught you a great deal about ranching, but it's quite obvious that he never bothered to teach you any manners!" Her hand was released in a gesture of disgust, as Flint turned away.
"Do
n't you speak that way about my father!" This time it was Casey's hand that reached out to detain him. The tears that had been burning her eyes now began to cloud her vision. "He's the most perfect father in the world. I'd do anything for him and he'd do anything for me."
"That's where you're wrong, Casey." Flint stared at her with uncomfortable coldness. "You're too selfish to do 'anything' for him."
"That's a lie!" Her vehement denial ended in a choking sob.
"Is it? You can't even bring yourself to be civil to me, let alone friendly. If your father could have had a choice, he would have been just as satisfied having you run the ranch. But we both know he didn't. You don't hear him complaining. You're the sore loser, Casey, and nobody likes a sore loser."
She couldn't meet his gaze. Her eyes stared unseeingly at his scuffed boots. She tried valiantly to argue with herself that what he was saying was untrue. She felt about the size of a sand flea and just about as useful. There was no getting around it—she was a spoiled, selfish, ungrateful brat who didn't deserve or appreciate the things she had. The sound of creaking saddle leather brought her trembling chin up as Casey saw Flint astride his horse, reining him in the direction of the ranch house.
"Flint." Her voice was weak, but he heard it. He stopped his horse and looked back at her. Pride was an enormous lump in her throat, but somehow Casey swallowed it and walked slowly toward him. She didn't wipe the tears from her cheeks, as she tilted her head to look up to him.
"I'm so…sorry…for the way I've acted."
Before she even completed the sentence, she had lowered her head to stare at the ground. She waited for him to throw her apology back in her face, to tell her that it was too late to make amends. Instead a hand was outstretched toward her in friendship.
"Maybe we won't ever be friends, Casey," Flint said, holding the hand she had placed in his gently. "But let's not be enemies."
She nodded, withdrawing her hand from his in embarrassment. A finger lifted her protesting chin until Casey was forced to look into his face. He was smiling that devastating smile that had always been reserved for others. She caught her breath at the potency of his charm.
"That was a hard thing you just did, admitting you were wrong, especially to me. Your father is a stubborn man or he wouldn't be a rancher, but he's fair and honest, too. I didn't believe his daughter could be any different, only a bit more bull-headed, perhaps."
Casey wondered why she had never noticed the twinkle in his eyes or the rugged forthright lines in his face. Two dots of red appeared on her cheeks as she realized she had been staring and liking what she saw. She stepped back hesitantly, not knowing anything more to say and feeling ridiculously shy.
From a near hilltop came a shrill whinny, answered immediately by Flint's horse. Casey wiped the tears off her cheeks, her glance turning toward the first sound. She smiled widely as she saw the white horse tossing his head a hundred yards from them.
"I haven't seen that horse around the ranch," Flint said.
"That's my horse, Mercury." Casey lifted her fingers to her mouth and whistled. A glow of pride lit her eyes as she watched the horse trot toward them, his stride long and swinging, his nose raised to catch the scent of the stranger, and his tail almost unnaturally erect above his rump. His white coat shimmered with health and not until he had stopped in front of Casey was the heavy weight of his years seen. She rubbed his neck fondly while the horse nuzzled the pockets of her blouse. She laughed gaily, extracting the cubes of sugar and offering them to him.
"He's nearly seventeen years old. You can hardly tell it, can you?" Casey glanced at Flint for his affirmation. "He was my first real horse, the first one that didn't have to be whipped to get out of a trot." She hugged the horse's neck affectionately. "He was as fast as the wind. That's why I named him Mercury, after the Roman god with wings on his feet."
Casey glanced hesitantly at Flint, wondering if he thought her childish and silly. But he seemed to be studying her with interest and not amusement.
"I used to be a terrible tomboy," she went on.
"Used to be?" he laughed, but it was a gentle laugh, one that she could join.
"Uhuh. I liked to pretend that Mercury was an Indian pony. I was forever riding him without a saddle or bridle, guiding him with my knees. Most of the time it worked," she grinned.
"He looks in great shape for his age."
"His teeth are beginning to wear down terribly now." A sad note crept into her voice. "Dad said this spring when we wormed him that by the time next summer is over, Mercury probably won't have any teeth left. They'll all be worn to the gum. He likes to run free," she declared fervently, a frown creasing her forehead. "I hate to see the day come when Mercury is reduced to eating mash instead of the rich pasture grass."
The white horse nuzzled her pockets once more in search of any sugar Casey might have overlooked. Deciding there was none, he turned away, trotting out toward the hills from which he had just come.
"It has to happen some time." There was no prophecy in Flint's words, only fact. But Casey sensed the understanding he communicated.
"Yes…yes, I know. He's led a…full life."
Even as she sighed the last words, she smiled. Living on a ranch had taught her that the cycle of life was never-ending; no one could halt it. She had learned to accept the things that weren't in her power to change, although it didn't make them any easier.
It was a new experience for her to be talking so easily to him, one that Casey found unsettling and yet immensely enjoyable. For these few brief moments Flint had made her feel important. Perhaps that was why when he left, she felt just a little bit lonely.
CASEY TOOK THE PORCH STEPS two at a time. The tune, "There's no place like Nebraska," was a merry melody that she hummed to match her buoyant spirits. Finally accepting Flint as a fellow rancher whose interest, like hers, lay in what was best for the ranch had made the difference. Casey found a new enjoyment in working side by side with him which filled her with a previously unknown satisfaction. She also found a certain admiration growing for Flint, one that she still tried to hide, but was becoming increasingly apparent. Just as she opened the kitchen door, Casey heard Mark exclaiming, "No! No!"
He was standing in front of the table, a paper held in his hands as he shook his head vigorously from side to side. A disgruntled face turned to Casey at the sound of her footsteps. "How could my own mother do this to me!" Mark's voice squeaked.
"What are you talking about?" Casey reached for the paper that he extended to her, while from the corner of her eye she saw Flint step into the room.
"Mrs. Grassick stopped in this noon," Flint explained even as Casey read the note left for them. "She offered to take your mother into Scottsbluff to the hospital to visit your father. She left that note explaining why she wouldn't be here for supper this evening."
"There's no way I'm going to eat my sister's cooking!" Mark flopped into the kitchen chair. "I put up with it for an entire week when mom stayed with dad. It's a miracle I didn't die of ptomaine poisoning."
"Mark!" She couldn't stop the embarrassed flush from coloring her face as she glanced at Flint's amused expression. She also couldn't help noticing the way his rust-colored shirt matched the highlights in his brown hair and set off the pale tan of his slacks.
"I'm telling you, Flint, you've never met a worse cook in your life than Casey." She longed to reach over and jam her fist in Mark's mouth, anything to stop his humiliating words from tumbling out. "One time she tried to make some instant jello out of a box. She had to go and put too much water in it and we had to drink it!"
"I think we'd better change the subject, Mark," Flint said, his laughing eyes flicking over the enraged anger on Casey's face, "before you're forced to defend yourself. I'd already decided that rather than have your sister slave over a hot stove after she's worked so hard all day that we would all go into Fort Robinson and have a meal out tonight."
"Terrific!" Mark whooped,
"Does that suit you, Ca
sey?"
For the first time in her life, Casey wished she could cook as well as her mother. After Mark's degrading statements she yearned to whip together some exotic meal. Instead she nodded stiffly. Mumbling quickly that she wanted to change, She escaped from the room before the hot tears of anger and humiliation could betray her.
During the entire journey to Fort Robinson, Casey was unbearably self-conscious. She tried to convince herself that it didn't really matter whether she could cook or not, but for the second time she found that it did. And she realized it did matter what Flint thought of her. Not even when the rolling Sand Hills gave way to the more spectacular scenery of the Pine Ridge region around Fort Robinson State Park did Casey's feeling of inadequacy abate. She found as she accepted Flint's hand when he helped her out of the car that she was uncomfortable. He was wearing a waist-length jacket in the same pale tan of his slacks with-complementing stitching to match the rust brown of his shirt. His dress was so completely coordinated that the sporty denim material was overcome by the perfectly tailored appearance.
Casey found herself wishing that she had taken more care in choosing her own outfit. The white slacks and ruffled checked blouse did look nice, but she felt like a gauche country bumpkin. Too bad she couldn't have looked as good as Flint did, she sighed silently. At least she had forsaken her cowboy boots for her lone pair of white sandals.
