Boss Man from Ogallala

by Janet Dailey

  "To put it bluntly, I think you've fallen in love with me," Flint stated. His grim and forbidding expression brought a faint flush of humiliation to Casey. Why did her emotions have to be so transparent to him?

  "Of all the egotistical men I've ever met—" Casey fought to keep her voice as cold and biting as she could and not let her trembling body take over "—you beat them all! Have you become so used to women falling all over themselves to get near you that you expect it as your due? With your arrogance, I suppose you think that one little kiss and a girl is yours." She paused to take a deep breath. "Well, let me tell you one thing, Flint McCallister, this little gal isn't one of them. All along I knew you were a despicable man. I played along with you for a while because I wanted to find out what your game was. So don't bother to add me to your list of conquests."

  "Are you telling me the truth? Because if you're not, I'll—" His fingers were like ten separate vices gripping her shoulders. She stared up at him haughtily, mocking his attempt to get the real truth out of her.

  "What do you think?" she retorted sarcastically. "If you'll just let go of me, I'll go and pack. It should be fun enlightening your sister about her big brother."

  "Go!" Flint uttered hoarsely, releasing her abruptly. "Get out of here!"

  "With pleasure," she answered with equal venom.

  Nearly three hours later Flint and Casey arrived at the hospital. John Gilmore looked considerably weaker, but he still managed to jest to his daughter that he had to enter the hospital to get sick. Casey was surprised that she could appear so natural and relaxed in front of her parents. Inside her body was a turmoil of pain and rejection that should have numbed her from any feeling. She avoided any reference to the grim. Flint McCallister who stood silently in the room. He had barely said five words to John Gilmore before moving to a wall where he could lean back and stare at Casey.

  There was a moment when Casey had to meet her father's questioning eyes after her mother had mentioned that Casey was going to stay with Flint's sister. But she somehow managed to make light of it.

  "Now how do you like that, dad?" she had laughed. "You always said there was a silver lining to every cloud. Here you are in the hospital and I'm going on a vacation!"

  Her mother cast an apprehensive glance at Casey then over to Flint. Although her daughter seemed natural, Flint didn't. No mother could have been unaware of the undercurrents that had been flowing around her house the last two weeks. Perhaps she had made a mistake agreeing with Flint's suggestion that Casey stay with his sister. It had seemed a sensible solution at the time. Just as she was about to make an excuse to see her daughter alone and find out what difficulties, if any, existed between Casey and Flint, one of the doctors stopped in for a late check on his patient. Flint took the opportunity to recommend that he and Casey leave, The strain of wearing the heavy mask of gaiety was getting to be too much for Casey, so she agreed quickly. She paused long enough to assure her father that she would be up to see him as often as she could.

  Casey never realized the journey from Scottsbluff to Ogallala could seem so long. Nor did she ever think that Flint could treat her so disdainfully. Even the arch of his eyebrow when he turned in her direction, which was seldom, seemed to look at her with displeasure above the stone coldness of his eyes. As for herself, she didn't attempt to inject any warmth into the car. She huddled against the car door and stared out the window, trying to make believe that Flint wasn't there at all.

  When they passed Chimney Rock, painted a fiery orange by the late setting sun, Casey felt the long stifled tears cloud in her eyes. Gazing at the inverted funnel formation of rock, a famous landmark on the way west, made her wonder what tormenting hardships were ahead of her. She had come to acknowledge her love for Flint as genuine and the realization that he didn't want her was nearly a fatal wound, one that her pride would never let show.

  The dark waters of Lake McConaughy blinked at them from behind the sandy bluffs that rimmed the Platte River Valley. Casey found herself wondering more and more about her final destination. She discovered that she knew very little about the woman she was going to stay with other than her name, Gabrielle, her age, twenty-four, and her occupation, a freelance writer. She longed to ask Flint questions, but each impulse to do so was pushed back. Feeling as she did for him, it was wrong for her to become involved with his family. How many endless days would stretch ahead where she would picture him with them? A bitter, ironic smile teased her lips as she remembered saying to her father that this was going to be a vacation. That was far from the truth. It was going to be a test of her nerves. Right now she didn't think she could stand up under it.

  Flint turned the station wagon off the main road toward the lake and continued along a dirt road until he reached a group of lake-front cabins. In the waning purple of the evening light, Casey's eye was caught by the modernistic, chalet-type cabin with a wide veranda-like porch at the rear of the structure looking out over the shimmering waters. The simplistic design reeked of class and distinction, which was probably the reason Casey shuddered when Flint pulled into its narrow drive. The affluence it represented intimidated her and made her more aware of the mediocrity of her background.

  The car rolled to a halt at almost the same pace that her heart slowed its beat. Flint turned off the motor. Casey waited expectantly for him to open the door and signal the end of the journey, but he waited. In the dimness of their confines, she saw him turn toward her. The focus of his attention quickened her impulse. The distance between them seemed so small that with just the slightest effort she could be in his arms. It was surprising how cold she suddenly felt inside, and she remembered vividly the feel of his warm body against hers.

  "You said at the hospital that you were going on a vacation." The urgent compassion in his voice grated at Casey as no amount of anger could have. She didn't want his pity. "I hope you meant that. Too many things have happened in a few short weeks. A slower pace will help you think things through, give you a chance to discover your true feelings about things."

  "Stop the pretense," she answered bitterly. "You know I only said that to reassure my father. Save the pity for the poor girls who fall for male chauvinist egomaniacs like you!"

  For a moment anger flared blackly in his eyes before the gray hardness returned. "Common sense should make you admit that what I'm saying is right."

  "Common sense told me that I never should have let you set foot on the Anchor Bar. The biggest mistake I ever made was not listening to it." This denial of him was the only defense she had.

  "You're making an even bigger mistake if you keep pushing me," Flint warned, ominously leaning closer.

  "Conversation with you is pointless," Casey replied scathingly, unwilling to admit that she was slightly intimidated by his threat. She pushed open her door and stepped out before he had a chance to stop her.

  Her legs felt like liquid jelly beneath her, but she managed to gaze haughtily at him as he slammed his car door shut and removed her suitcases from the back. The contemptuous disdain in his face brought a strangling lump to her throat. All she wanted was to be away from him, to indulge herself in the tears that she had fought all afternoon. She didn't want to give him the satisfaction of knowing he could make her cry. Flint signaled for her to precede him to the cabin. It was difficult to keep her back straight, her chin up and her pace slow with his steady gaze on her back. Relief washed over her as the front door opened and she was bathed in the light.

  "I was beginning to think you weren't coming!" the tall, dark-haired girl in the doorway called out in a happy, welcoming voice.

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  Chapter Twelve

  "HE WAS TERRIBLY ABRUPT, wasn't he?" Gabrielle, or Gabbie as she had insisted that Casey call her, commented after Flint had left. "Hardly the epitome of male courtesy?"

  "Yes, he was very sharp," Casey willingly admitted, glad that someone else had noticed his cold indifference.

  Flint had been almost embarrassingly
short, making only the briefest of introductions before setting the suitcases down and stating that he had to leave to make it back to the ranch. Gabbie's offer for refreshments had been brushed aside. He had left with only a curt nod to Casey which was supposed to serve as goodbye.

  Although Casey was still uneasy, Gabbie's handshake had been warm and friendly. Even now she was obviously trying to establish some degree of comradeship between them. The trouble was that Casey had discovered that the sudden departure of Flint had removed her protective armor. The rigidity and tenseness were gone and she was dangerously close to tears.

  "I have some cold drinks in the kitchen. Why don't you go on into the living room and make yourself comfortable?" Gabbie suggested.

  Casey glanced appreciatively at the tall girl with long, straight dark hair.

  "Thanks, I will," she agreed.

  The room was cool and cheerful, but Casey wasn't in the mood to appreciate it. The walls were white with large, darkly stained beams giving it an elegantly rustic atmosphere. An enormous white wicker chair offered its cocoonlike shelter to her and Casey allowed herself to be lost in its brightly flowered cushions. Here restless hands played with the large fern plant in the cedar pot beside her chair. Gabbie joined her only a few minutes later, handing her a tall glass already gathering moisture on the outside.

  "I'd better warn you I put some vodka in that," Gabbie told her as Casey lifted the drink to her mouth.

  The citrus taste of juice felt refreshing to her dry throat, while the more potent liquor relaxed her muscles and warmed the hollows inside.

  "You looked in need of something stiffening," Gabbie added.

  "I was," Casey sighed. She stared at the glass, listening to the sound of the ice clinking against the side.

  "How's your father?" Gabbie curled her long frame onto the brilliant Prussian blue sofa.

  "Much better. I guess the virus had reached its peak this morning. He was joking a bit this evening when Fl—I was there." Casey's mind was racing to think of anything to say, anything to keep her mind from returning to those thoughts of Flint.

  "Flint seemed terribly concerned when he called me this noon." Gabbie's blue green eyes studied Casey thoughtfully before returning to the large silver bracelet on her wrist. "He isn't the type to cry wolf without a reason."

  Casey swallowed hard, but she couldn't get rid of the lump in her throat. Gabbie paused just long enough to give Casey an opportunity to comment if she wanted before she continued.

  "The few weekends that Flint has been back, he's told us quite a lot about your family. He admires your parents. You have two brothers, don't you?"

  Casey nodded that she did.

  "Flint thinks that Mark—he's the youngest, isn't he—will make a fine rancher. Flint said he had a natural feel for the land."

  Flint! Flint! Flint! There was no escape from him. Tears welled in her eyes. In another moment they would be running down her cheeks. Casey jumped to her feet, placing the glass haphazardly on the glass coffee table.

  "You'll have to excuse me." Casey fought for composure. She refused to cry in front of Flint's sister. "I know it's early yet, but I'd really like to—"she swallowed back a sob"—to turn in. This morning seems as if it has gone on for a whole week."

  "You don't have to make any excuses," Gabbie smiled, rising to her feet as well. "I understand."

  She led Casey to a small bedroom in the rear of the cabin, showed her where the bathroom was, the empty drawers in the bureau and the closet for her clothes before taking leave.

  "Stay in bed as late as you like. I work in the mornings, so just cover your head with a pillow when you hear the typewriter. Have a nice night, Casey."

  As the door closed behind the tall dark-haired girl, Casey sank on to the single bed. She forced herself to remove her shoes, tights, dress and slip before she leaned back on the bed and stared at the ceiling. Then the textured paint was obscured by a wall of tears.

  IT TOOK CASEY nearly a half hour the following morning to repair the ravages wrought by last night's storm of tears. Even then no artificial means could restore the lack of color in her cheeks and the dullness in her eyes. Shrugging that it didn't really matter what she looked like any more, Casey pulled a pale green top over her head to match the faded green cut-off jeans. Just as she entered the living room, Gabbie walked out of the kitchen carrying a tray.

  "Break time for breakfast," she announced gaily, walking on past Casey toward the glass door that led onto the veranda. "I always say that when I have a particularly bad morning at the typewriter. Any excuse to get me away from that monster! Toasted muffins, jam and coffee—how does that sound to you?"

  "It sounds good." Casey followed her onto the wide porch. She couldn't help admiring the sea-green kimono Gabbie was wearing, her long dark hair piled on top of her head.

  "Like the outfit?" Gabbie questioned at Casey's prolonged inspection. "Most people expect writers to be slightly eccentric and bizarre. I don't like to disappoint them."

  "You look so natural wearing that I can't imagine anyone regarding it as bizarre." Casey smiled as she pulled a chair away from the wrought-iron table. "What's it like being a writer?"

  "It has its peaks and valleys. The valleys seem exceptionally deep when you're staring at an empty sheet of paper and the typewriter keys are staring back. But it's the supreme ego trip when you see your name below a published article, if—capital letters, IF—you don't let yourself get weighted down by rejection slips."

  Casey sipped carefully at the scalding cup of coffee, inhaling the aroma at the same time. "What kind of things do you write exactly?" she asked as she spread blackberry jam on a muffin.

  "Short stories, magazine articles," Gabbie's hand trailed off into space suggestively. "The Great American Novel is waltzing around in my head, but so far it hasn't danced itself onto paper." She leaned back in her chair, nibbled at her muffin and gazed out at the blue waters of the lake.

  The blood drained away from Casey's face as the aristocratic profile stood out against the backdrop of blue sky. It was startling to see how this modellike girl looked so much like Flint. Gabbie had the same strong cheekbones, straight nose and high arched brows. Her jawline was more refined and feminine. She was strikingly beautiful in her own individualistic way. But now she was a constant reminder of Flint's unnerving handsomeness.

  "Did you find the family resemblance?" A pair of blue green eyes stared back into the pain-filled brown ones. Their knowing look was extremely difficult to meet.

  "I…I don't know wh-what you mean," Casey stammered, trying to ignore Gabbie's direct gaze.

  "All of us McCallisters look alike in some way or another. Flint and I have almost the same bone structure, although my hair is darker than his and I don't have those darling creases that give his mouth a permanent smile. You were bound to notice the resemblance sooner or later," Gabbie replied blandly.

  Casey made an attempt to hide her confusion behind her coffee cup as she admitted that there was a slight resemblance.

  "You look as if you've spent the night crying."

  Casey couldn't stop the cup from clattering back to its saucer at Gabbie's pointed remark.

  "I didn't get nicknamed Gabbie just because my first name is Gabrielle and I didn't become a moderately successful writer by not observing the people around me. I'm not a subtle person and I'm not going to pretend to be one." Her eyes softened as she watched the conflicting emotions race across Casey's face. "I'll wager those tears last night were over my brother and not your father. Am I right?"

  Casey stared at her aghast. How could Gabbie possibly know? How could she possibly guess? She opened her mouth to deny the charge vehemently, but instead an almost incoherent "yes" tumbled out.

  "Do you want to tell me about it?" Gabbie coaxed her gently.

  Casey raised her lowered head and gazed at her thoughtfully.

  "I talk a lot, but I don't betray a confidence, so you don't have to worry that I'll go carrying tales to Flint,"
Gabbie assured her. "If you'd rather not tell me, that's all right too."

  The need to lighten her burden by talking was overwhelming. Besides, there was something about Gabbie, just as there had been about Flint, that told Casey she could trust her. But there was also a certain point beyond which Casey wasn't going to confide. She held back the more intimate details, relating only the briefest of outlines to Gabbie, ending with, "He made it very clear he didn't want me."

  The composure with which she retold the story surprised her. The words seemed to have come out of another person. Perhaps, she decided, she had cried out all her tears last night and no emotions remained.

  "The unfeeling brute!" Smoke from her recently lit cigarette puffed expressively from Gabbie's pink-tinted lips. "Even if he is my brother, that was a terribly callous thing to do." The glimmering green of her dress was reflected in the gleam of her eye. "If Flint was so blind not to see what a gem he could have had, then he deserves whatever comes next."

  "What are you talking about?" Casey was just a little bit puzzled by Gabbie's cryptic remark.

  "Just generalities." Gabbie shrugged, rising from her chair. "I have to get back to work. You're welcome to take a swim if you like. The beaches here are absolutely gorgeous."

  Minutes after Gabbie left, Casey heard the tapping of a typewriter. She sighed heavily, wishing she were back at the ranch where she could have at least busied herself with work. Now all she had to do was to gaze at the beauty of the lake, its sandy beaches stretching out their golden fingers to the sky-blue water. Amidst all this splendour of sun and sand, Casey was only conscious of her aching love for Flint. His face danced before her with almost jeering vividness.

  The jangling ring of the telephone in the house startled her momentarily as if it were an alarm clock ringing her out of a bad dream. Casey waited expectantly for Gabbie to answer it, but the distant tapping of the typewriter didn't even pause. At the fourth ring, Casey rose to her feet and walked back into the house. The white phone was sitting on an end table, still intermittently ringing. She glanced toward the room where Gabbie was working. Perhaps Gabbie didn't want anyone to know she was here, Casey thought. But she couldn't ignore the ringing and finally answered it: