This Calder Range

by Janet Dailey

  “No, I won’t leave you,” Benteen said quietly. “And I don’t blame you for hating me.”

  “Why did you have to say that?” She opened her teary eyes to look at him, but he couldn’t meet them. She felt defiled and humiliated, yet strangely guilty, too.

  “I went crazy at the thought of you leaving me. It will never happen again.”

  Lorna shivered with the sensation that it was more than his anger he was burying; it was his ability to feel deeply as well. His sexual abuse had left her with loathing, but hate didn’t describe what she felt toward him, although she couldn’t have said she still loved him either. It was all too brutally fresh for Lorna to assess the damage to her feelings toward him.

  Only one other time had she seen Benteen come so close to the violent hatred he had just displayed. She had thought he was going to strike her on that occasion when she had rescued his mother’s picture from the fire—a mother who had left him, as she had threatened to do.

  Lorna was faced with the knowledge that she was partly responsible for what had happened. She had made her threat in anger, but there was never any real possibility that she would have carried it out. She had found a way to hurt him and used it, never thinking of the consequences. Like Benteen, she discovered there was nothing she could say.

  She sat up, keeping her back to him while she wiped the tears from her cheeks with the hem of her grassstained skirt. He waited silently, making no attempt to help her to her feet. Her hair was loose, falling down her back and tangling with her sunbonnet.

  “I’ll help you look for the rose cuttings,” Benteen said.

  “No. I don’t want them.” They would always be a reminder of what had happened here. It was going to be difficult enough for them to forget.

  They walked together back to the noon camp, but they’d never been further apart. It was a gap they both had a hesitant wish to bridge, yet neither knew how to begin. They separated when they reached the wagons. Benteen remounted his horse and rode out to the herd while Lorna climbed into the back of the stuffy wagon to fix her hair and think privately.

  They held the restless cattle through the noonday heat before starting them out again. Ten miles from the Arkansas, the Longhorns caught the smell of its water. The problem became preventing the herd from stampeding to the river. The brindle steer, dubbed Captain after it had led the herd across the Red River, did its part in checking the mad flight of the thirst-crazed cattle by maintaining a steady pace and hooking its long horns at anything that tried to pass him.

  When they reached the river, it became lined with multicolored hides as the cattle waded into the water. The great majority of them stood there, moaning low and absorbing the wetness into their thirst-craved bodies and waited to drink a little. A scant few overdrank and died.

  While the cattle drank, the trailhands went upstream and sprawled facedown on the edge of the river to drink their fill. Not far away, in plain view of the camp, sat Dodge City. Lorna hadn’t realized how hungry she was for the sight of a building.

  In camp that night, she and Benteen said very little to each other beyond what was necessary. She went to bed early and lay awake a long time, waiting for him. When he came to the wagon, she didn’t pretend to be asleep, but remained on her side, faced away from him. After he’d undressed, he crawled under the quilt. She unconsciously stiffened when he accidentally brushed against her. Lorna forced herself to relax. In the eyes of God, he was her husband “for better or for worse.” She rolled over to lie facing him. His hands were clasped under his head as he gazed at the canvas ceiling.

  “We’ll let the herd graze and rest here for a couple of days,” he said. “Tomorrow we’ll go into Dodge City to restock the supplies.”

  “There’s a few things I need to buy,” Lorna replied, and realized he was expecting her to reaffirm her intention to leave him there. “I’m going to miss Mary,” she said to let him know she was staying.

  His chest lifted on a deep breath and slowly went down. “I know you will,” was all he said.

  It was a small step—a beginning.

  14

  Dodge City bustled with activity. The hooting whistles of trains clanking over iron rails wavered through the stockyards with its pens of cattle. Cowpunchers prodded cattle up wooden chutes to load them into railroad cars bound for the Eastern marketplaces.

  The unpaved streets in the main section of town were churned by horses’ hooves, raising clouds of dust to spread over everything. There was the constant sound of footsteps on the wooden sidewalks as cowboys swaggered from saloon house to gambling hall. Sometimes they gathered in boisterous knots on street corners and shouted obscene greetings to acquaintances riding past.

  It was into this babble of confusion that Lorna rode, perched on the wagon seat while Benteen drove the team. A pair of barking dogs charged the horses, nipping at their heels and darting out of reach of a kicking hoof. The loudness of it all was vaguely alarming after weeks of the prairie’s relative quiet.

  “It’s so noisy.” She glanced at Benteen as two riders dashed past their wagon in an impromptu horse race. Last night had eased the tension between them, although nothing was back to normal. They were both treading warily.

  “It’s rowdy,” Benteen agreed with a half-glance at her. “We’ll stop at the Dodge House. I thought you might welcome a real bath and a couple of nights spent in a regular bed.”

  “It would be nice, yes.” Lorna knew it was an attempt to make up for the creature comforts she’d been missing.

  The lobby was crowded with elegantly dressed meat packers from the North, feeders, and an assortment of cattle buyers. They rubbed elbows with dusty, dirty cowboys fresh off the trail. The presence of a female in their midst was quickly noted, making Lorna selfconscious about her appearance. She kept her head lowered so they wouldn’t see how her once flawless complexion had been weathered by the elements, and her rough hands were carefully hidden from view as well.

  She stayed close to Benteen while he signed the register, and tried to be inconspicuous. “We are pleased to have you back with us, Mr. Calder,” the desk clerk welcomed him without glancing at the register. “I believe we have your usual room available—”

  “I’d like something bigger this time,” Benteen interrupted. “Something with a dressing room for my wife.”

  The clerk glanced at Lorna, then at the register. “Very good, sir. We have just the room.” He handed the key to the porter with a murmur of instructions. “I’m sure it will be satisfactory.”

  “Also arrange to have some water sent up for a bath,” Benteen requested, and handed the valise containing Lorna’s personal articles from the wagon to the porter. “Will you show my wife to the room?”

  “Aren’t you coming?” Lorna glanced at him in vague confusion, hesitant whether she should ask why he wasn’t.

  “No. I’m going to take the wagon to the livery and see to the team.” He was reserved in his explanation. “I’ll be back in a while.”

  “If you’d come this way, ma’am?” The porter prompted her to follow him.

  Lorna didn’t want to ask Benteen to accompany her to the room, although she would have liked the protection of his company when she crossed the lobby full of men. It didn’t matter that the cowboys on the trail had seen her looking worse. These were gentlemen, and she didn’t want them wondering about an unescorted lady in their midst.

  She kept her gaze modestly lowered as she followed the porter, conscious that Benteen’s gaze traveled after her. As Lorna climbed the stairs, she heard the rustle of silk. She looked up, half-expecting to see a “lady of the evening,” since the trail town would obviously abound in them.

  By no stretch of the imagination was the woman at the top of the stairs a member of that old profession. Her long dress of blue silk had a low neck and short sleeves, styled in the latest fashion. Her pale blond hair was swept atop her head in an elegant style, not a lock out of place. The fine jewelry and the regal carriage of her slim form in
formed Lorna that this was a real lady.

  As Lorna approached the woman standing near the top of the stairs talking to some equally well-dressed man, she noticed the woman wasn’t as young as she had first appeared. Her skin was so smooth and her beauty so flawless that it was difficult to judge her true age. If it wasn’t for the faint lines showing on her powdered neck, Lorna would have thought the woman was in her twenties.

  It was rude to stare, and she tried very hard not to as she followed the porter past them. Her curiosity got the better of her when she heard the woman’s voice. It had a foreign accent that quite intrigued Lorna. She slowed her steps to listen, not paying attention to the porter striding ahead of her.

  “Your invitation is most gracious, sir, but I was given to understand by the earl that he has accepted the mayor’s offer to sit in his private box,” the woman was saying.

  Earl. The mayor. A private box. The lady was obviously someone very important as well as wealthy. Lorna cast a backward glance for another look at the elegant woman. There was something oddly familiar about her.

  “Mrs. Calder?” the porter called to her.

  When the woman glanced sharply down the hallway, Lorna quickly averted her head. She didn’t want to disgrace herself by being caught rudely staring. She hurried to the door where the porter was waiting.

  “Is something wrong, ma’am?” he inquired politely.

  “No.” She thought about asking him who the lady was, but that would be too forward.

  After setting her valise inside the room, he handed her the key. Reluctantly she took it, hoping the porter didn’t notice the roughness of her hands. Before she entered the room, she darted another glance at the stairs. The well-dressed man was bowing over the woman’s hand, taking his leave of her.

  When the fawning fortune-hunter had finally gone, the Lady Elaine, wife to the Earl of Crawford, turned to glance down the hallway. The smile left her lightly rouged mouth as her dark eyes became sharp with curiosity. She knew she had concealed her shock well when she’d heard that name. It wasn’t a common one.

  The porter walked toward her, smiling like a silly schoolboy. “Good day to you …” He faltered, not knowing the proper way to address her. “… your Highness.”

  “Good day.” God, how she loved the way these yokels bowed and scraped to win their way into her good graces. “Excuse me a moment, young man.”

  “Yes, ma’am … your Highness,” he corrected, turning a little red but no less eager to serve.

  “The young woman. I believe I heard you refer to her as Mrs. Calder. My husband was acquainted with a family named Calder during an earlier visit to America. I was wondering if they might possibly be related to them.”

  “I doubt it.” He turned his head to the side in skepticism. “Her husband has been coming here regularly, bringing trail herds up a couple times a year from Texas.”

  Lady Elaine stiffened just a little. “Would you know his name?” she inquired.

  “I believe … his name is Benteen Calder,” the porter replied.

  “As you said”—she made a small moue of regret—“it is unlikely my husband would know him. Thank you.”

  “My pleasure, ma’am … your Royalty.” His bobbing attempt at a bow was awkward.

  After the porter had started down the stairs, she remained a moment longer and sent a considering glance down the hallway. A cool intelligence showed as she wondered what problems this might present, if any. Perhaps she and Con should leave immediately for San Francisco. But they had already accepted too many invitations. Besides, there was a part of her that was curious. She almost laughed aloud when she realized that. After all these years, who would have thought that she’d care a damn.

  “Laine, my pet, are you coming down?”

  With a graceful turn, she looked down the stairs, where her husband stood with one foot on the steps. She looked at him with eyes of long ago and saw the changes—the added weight that had broadened his middle and the receding hairline that had raised his already high forehead. The mustache and muttonchop whiskers emphasized his jowls and weak chin. He had never made her heart beat fast, but he’d given her everything she’d ever wanted—after she’d put the idea in his head.

  “Yes, I’m coming, Con.”

  It was more than two hours since Lorna had entered the hotel room. In that time, she had taken a long bath and washed her hair. She wished for a wrap to wear over her undergarments and chemise. That lady she’d seen in the hall probably had dozens of silk or satin ones. She didn’t want to put on her only clean dress until her hair had dried.

  Benteen still hadn’t come to the room. Lorna wondered what was keeping him as she ran a comb through her damp hair. Her mind kept turning back to the lady she’d seen, her image staying sharp. Lorna was intensely curious about her, wondering who she was and where she came from. The accent had sounded foreign.

  There was a light rap on the door. Lorna sat a little straighter on the bed, bringing the comb down to clutch it in front of her. “Who is it?”

  “It’s me. Benteen.”

  Crossing the room, she turned the key in the lock to open it, then hid behind it as it swung inward. She caught the scent of bay rum as Benteen walked past her into the room. Closing the door, she turned the key to lock it.

  When she pivoted away from the door, she saw that Benteen was studying her, his gaze running over her bare shoulders, down her length to her slender ankles. Her body reacted to the sensation of being touched. Lorna breathed in, not conscious that the movement pushed her breasts against the cotton bodice, accenting their roundness. She was suddenly uneasy, wondering if he was going to force himself on her again.

  A muscle tightened in his jaw a second before he swung away. “I thought you’d be ready by now.”

  It was suddenly clear that he had deliberately delayed his return to give her time to finish her bath and dress. He hadn’t wanted to be here during that time. Lorna had no difficulty guessing why. Benteen had told her on past occasions when they made love that looking at her body aroused him. He had wanted to avoid that happening.

  “My hair isn’t dry,” Lorna explained, and glanced at the comb in her hand.

  Walking to the mirror, she began running the comb through the dark mass again to separate the damp strands and hurry the drying process. In the mirror she could see his reflection. She studied the rough cut of his features and the shaggy hair growing almost down to his collar. There were strength and power etched there, a clearness of purpose and solid will.

  Lorna suddenly noticed the clean shirt he was wearing, and the pants. The sunlight streaming through the room’s window set fire to the ends of his hair.

  “You’ve bathed,” she realized.

  “Yes. One of the saloons has bath facilities in back,” he stated. “I thought it would save time if I went ahead and cleaned up, instead of waiting until you were through.”

  Unconsciously she tested the air, catching again the drifting scent of bay rum that indicated he had shaved, too. It was slightly stimulating to her senses. She was becoming too aware of him.

  “When the porter showed me to the room, I passed this lady on the stairs.” She began talking about the first thing that came to her mind. “She was wearing the most beautiful dress. I’m sure she’s someone very important. I heard her say something about using the mayor’s private box. And she had a foreign accent, too.”

  “There are a lot of immigrants here in Kansas,” Benteen replied.

  He couldn’t keep his gaze from straying to her; the curved shape of her was a magnet. The straps of her chemise drew his attention to her shoulder blades. As she combed her hair, he watched the rippling movement down her spine to a waist so slender his hands could easily span it. Her rounded buttocks and hips tantalized him, fully outlined by the chemise.

  “This lady wasn’t an ordinary immigrant.” Lorna stayed with the topic, although another woman was the farthest thing from Benteen’s mind. “I know she’s special. She referred
to ‘the earl.’” She combed the ends of her hair around a finger. “That’s a title, isn’t it? Like a duke?”

  “I believe so.” Benteen had an aversion to titled nobility. His mother had run away with a remittance man, a member of that class. “Fancy titles mean nothing. Don’t be impressed by them, Lorna.”

  His abruptness with her brought renewed concentration to combing her hair. Lorna resented the way he’d made her feel wrong for being fascinated by the woman she’d seen. She didn’t see the harm in it. The teeth of the comb became snagged by a tangle in the back. Her attempt to tug it free pulled at the roots.

  “Ouch!” It was an involuntary exclamation. The snarl was in the back. Lorna tried to twist around so she could see to comb it out, but it wasn’t possible.

  “I’ll get it for you,” Benteen volunteered.

  Lorna hesitated an instant at the thought of having him so close to her. It hardly made sense when she’d slept with him last night. She handed him the comb and continued to face the mirror, resting her hands on the edge of the dresser with its pitcher of water and basin.

  There was something about the touch of his fingers on her hair as they tunneled under its damp weight to hold the snarl that started her heart pattering. After he gently worked loose the tangle, he began slowly running the comb through her long hair. Lorna half-closed her eyes in involuntary enjoyment of his hand following the comb to smooth her hair. When he bent his head closer to hers, she took little notice of it.

  “Your hair smells good,” Benteen murmured as the comb ceased its movement. His hand settled onto the bare point of a shoulder, his callused skin pleasantly abrasive on sensitive flesh. “You smell good.”

  When his hand began a caressing movement, Lorna stiffened. Her fingers tightened their grip on the edge of the dresser. Benteen felt her silent protest and immediately took his hand away. The comb was thrust in front of her. The instant she took it, Benteen moved briskly away. She held the comb, looking at it, her breath running shallow.