by Janet Dailey
“Jessie should get there next week.” Benteen stopped and angled his body to face her. “Where did you get the idea Lorna wasn’t happy?”
“Call it women’s intuition, I suppose. We seem to be able to sense when another member of our sex is unhappy.” She finally let her gaze meet Benteen’s. “Your wife must have been very young when you married.”
“Seventeen, almost eighteen. I wouldn’t consider that too young.”
“Naturally she was a virgin.” When he averted his head, Elaine admonished, “You shouldn’t have asked if you didn’t want me to speak personally.”
“I don’t see that it has any bearing,” Benteen stated curtly.
“No, men never do.” She laughed softly. “You had some experience with women, so you knew what you wanted in a wife. Lorna didn’t have that advantage. If she discovers she’s made a mistake, she has no more choice than I had.”
“There’s been no mistake.”
“I didn’t mean to suggest there had been in your case,” Elaine pointed out. “I was only speaking in generalities. Which reminds me. I’d like you to have dinner with me one evening next week. There are two gentlemen that I think you should meet.”
“Who are they? Canadians?” He was quick to accept the change in subject.
“No. They are local politicians.”
“I’m not interested in becoming involved in politics.”
“There are degrees of involvement,” she said. “Your father went to the extreme. I’m talking about playing with politics, manipulating people and events to your own interest. You should become familiar with some of the leaders in the territorial government.”
“That government might as well not exist.” He voiced a sentiment shared by the vast majority of citizens in the territory. “It is a system that the East dreamed up. And they have no idea what it’s like out here. Everyone out here ignores it.”
“It’s feeble,” Elaine agreed. “But when Montana achieves statehood, there’s no reason why you and I can’t have a hand in choosing the first governor. The game of politics is a challenging one that can be highly profitable for the ranch. Look at the beef contract. It never hurts to have influential people in government who owe you favors, Benteen.”
“Perhaps.” But he wasn’t in full agreement on that point.
“The secret is to use them—not be used by them.”
“You’re good at using people, aren’t you?” he observed with a narrowed look.
“I’m going to pretend that’s a compliment.” She smiled and took his arm again to let her gaze survey the room. “I believe this study is going to be my favorite room in your house.”
The cabin was filled with the yeasty aroma of baking bread. Lorna sat with her back to the window, using the sunlight so she could see to hand-stitch a shirt for Arthur from the remnants of one of Benteen’s.
Her concentration was broken by the knock on the door. She quickly set aside the shirt to answer it, brushing at the flour dust on her muslin apron. But when she opened the door, it was Bull Giles, not Lady Crawford, who stood outside. She relaxed a little, not really disappointed.
“Are the boys here?” he asked.
It had become a habit for him to play with them during Lady Crawford’s visits with her husband. Lorna’s mouth curved at the irony of the situation. Lady Crawford spent more time with her husband than Lorna sometimes did. And Bull Giles spent more time with the children than Benteen.
“They’re taking a nap,” she explained, keeping her voice low. “Benteen didn’t mention that you would be coming today.”
“I brought them each a couple sticks of peppermint.” He took them from his pocket and handed them to her. “You can give it to them after supper tonight.”
“The boys will love it. Thank you, Bu …” She caught herself using his name and quickly corrected it. “… Mr. Giles.”
“I’d like it if you’d call me Bull,” he said quietly.
“That surely isn’t your given name.”
“No.” A sudden twinkle sprang into his eyes. “If you promise never to tell anyone, I’ll tell you what it is.”
“I promise.” She crossed her heart in a child’s vow of secrecy.
“Horatio.”
“Horatio,” she repeated, and felt the bubble of laughter in her voice.
“Disgusting, isn’t it?” Bull smiled.
“‘Bull’ does suit you better,” Lorna agreed, able to smile now that he was.
“‘Lorna’ suits you just fine, too,” he murmured. When she withdrew from the implied intimacy of his tone, Bull changed it and made a show of sniffing the air. “Is that fresh bread I smell?”
“Yes. I have some loaves baking in the oven.”
“Nothing tastes better than hot bread straight out of the oven,” he declared.
She laughed quietly. “It should be done in about fifteen minutes. Why don’t you come in and have some coffee?” Lorna invited.
“I’d like that, if you’re sure it’s all right.” Bull waited, giving her a chance to reconsider her impulsive offer.
Lorna flashed a glance beyond him at the house on the hill. If Benteen wouldn’t tell her anything about what was going on, maybe she could find out from Bull.
“Of course it’s all right.” She opened the door wider and stepped to the side to let him in. “Have a seat.”
While she went to pour the coffee, Bull walked to the chair by the window and picked up the sewing she’d left on the seat. “What are you making?” he asked.
“A new shirt for Arthur. You can put it on the table for now.” She paused to peek in the oven at the baking loaves of bread.
He unfolded the shirt and held it up. “It sure is small. My hand won’t even fit in the sleeve.” He wiggled the three fingers that he was able to slip into the opening.
“Your hand’s a lot bigger than his arm.” She exchanged the cup of coffee for the shirt.
Bull repositioned the chair so he was sitting parallel to the window and facing the door. His gaze traveled to the two small boys sleeping soundly on the short cots in the far corner of the room.
“I was never around kids very much. I’ve grown kinda fond of those two,” he admitted, and took a sip of the hot coffee.
“They like you a lot, too.”
“That Webb is going to be quite a horseman when he grows up. He can practically ride by himself now.”
“It isn’t really surprising. Benteen took him for his first ride when he was less than a month old.” Lorna smiled as she remembered the day. The mention of Benteen brought her thoughts back to her purpose. “Of course, the ranch has kept him so busy lately he hasn’t been able to devote very much time to teaching Webb to ride. He’s had to be away a lot because of this business venture with Lady Crawford.”
“I know he’s been out buying a lot of cattle to fill that Canadian contract,” Bull agreed. “It looks like those two are going to make nothing but money.”
Lorna had known Benteen had been purchasing cattle and that Jessie had taken a herd to Canada to sell, but she hadn’t connected the two to Lady Crawford.
“To tell you the truth, I am a little surprised at how well Benteen is getting along with Lady Crawford. He used to have a low opinion of so-called aristocrats. They’re actually becoming friends, I think.”
“It really shouldn’t come as a surprise,” Bull said, studying Lorna thoughtfully. “She’s still a beautiful woman. Any normal man would enjoy her company.”
“Yes, she still is beautiful”—Lorna’s agreement came easily until she read another implication in his words—”although she is considerably older than Benteen.”
“Do you think that makes a difference?” he asked with apparent innocence.
“A difference in what?” She was wary, not liking the turn this conversation was taking, yet unable to stop it or direct it onto another course.
“In whether Benteen would be attracted to her,” Bull said.
“Do you mean as a woman?�
� Lorna frowned.
“Yes, as a woman.”
She tried to laugh, but the sound had a hollow ring. “Bull, you aren’t trying to suggest that they have more than a friendly relationship, are you? That’s silly.”
“Why?” he wanted to know.
“Because Benteen and I are married.” The reason sounded weak.
“It isn’t likely a married man would have an affair.” But his statement didn’t sound like an agreement.
“Benteen wouldn’t.” She turned to the stove. “The bread should be done.” Just as quickly, Lorna pivoted back to face Bull. “Why are you saying these things to me? Why are you trying to create doubts in my mind?”
He held her gaze for a long moment, then stood up to walk to the stove and fill his cup. “Because I’ve seen them together and you haven’t. I’ve seen the way they look at each other. Whatever it is that’s between them, I’d stake my life that it isn’t strictly business. There’s something else,” he insisted. “And I guess I wanted you to know that there’s something more going on. I don’t like the idea of somebody hurtin’ you.”
“I see,” she murmured, because there wasn’t anything else she could say.
His suggestion that Benteen might be having an affair with Lady Crawford left Lorna stunned. It was a possibility that hadn’t occurred to her. The woman was beautiful, elegant, and sophisticated, but Lorna had assumed because she was older than Benteen that he wouldn’t regard her in a sexual way. Yet, wasn’t it a possible explanation for the way he’d been behaving lately? Why he didn’t want to talk to her about Lady Crawford? She tried to reject the idea as preposterous, but it wasn’t so easy.
With movements that were automatic, she reached for a towel to protect her hands and removed the tin loaves of bread from the oven. She hardly noticed the way Bull watched her, and she was completely unaware of the frown of hurt confusion on her face.
“I probably shouldn’t have said anything,” he sighed. “I hope you won’t hold it against me.”
The look of deep concern on his brutish features prompted her to smile faintly in reassurance. “I don’t, Bull.” Again she unconsciously used his name.
The door opened, flooding the cabin’s interior with sunlight. Benteen’s angular build was outlined by it, poised one step inside the cabin. Then he moved out of the glare of the sunlight to hold the door open.
“You left the buggy unattended, Giles.” His voice was harsh. “She’s ready to leave.”
Bull deliberately paused to take one last swallow of coffee before passing Lorna the cup. “Thanks for the coffee, Mrs. Calder.”
He walked to the door Benteen was holding open for him, his stride unhurried. The air was charged like it was just before a storm.
When Bull drew level with him, Benteen ordered, “Don’t ever set foot inside this cabin again.”
There was no response from Bull. His only reaction was a slight break in stride before he continued out the door. Lorna trembled with anger, but she waited until Benteen had closed the door to unleash it.
“How dare you give an order like that?” She tried to keep her voice down, but it vibrated with the fury of her temper. “I invited him in here for coffee. This is my home, too. I can entertain anyone I please.”
“No, you can’t,” Benteen snapped. “Not him.”
“Why? Because he’s a man,” she retorted. “Is it any different than you and Lady Crawford spending all that time alone?”
“You’re damned right that’s different!”
“Why is it proper for her and not for me?” she demanded.
“Because I said so.”
“That isn’t good enough!” Lorna hurled angrily. “I’ll not be told what to do or who I can have for a friend. Certainly not by you!”
“I happen to be your husband,” he reminded her.
“How odd that you should remember that at this particular time,” Lorna remarked with biting sarcasm.
“What is that supposed to mean?” Benteen glowered.
“It means you usually only remember that you have a wife when you’re hungry, the children are crying, or you feel the urge to make love,” she retorted. “Any other time I might as well be a chair, for all the notice you give me.”
“Are you saying you aren’t happy?”
“No, I’m not happy. Who would be in my place?” Lorna said, thinking of the way he shut her out and wouldn’t let her share in his plans.
“That’s too damned bad, because you’re just going to have to live with your mistake. So don’t get any crazy ideas in your head about changing things. This is the way things are going to be, so you might as well learn to live with it.”
In the next second, Benteen was slamming the door. Lorna’s first impulse was to run after him and demand to have an explanation for that remark, but the banging door had awakened the boys. By the time she had dealt with their cranky whines, Benteen was riding away from the barns.
She stared after him, a determined glint in her eyes. He was wrong. Regardless of what he wanted, there were going to be some changes. If he chose not to include her voluntarily, then it was going to be involuntarily.
She wasn’t one of his men to be given orders—or one of his cows to be branded and bred once a year. She was his wife, and he was damned well going to have to realize that.
26
When cattle walk through grass, they push it down behind them in the opposite direction they’re walking. A horse pushes the grass forward in the same direction it’s going. Reading sign is something a cowboy learns early in his career.
Since the prairie fire had blackened the land and burned out the line camp in the southwest section, Shorty had been shifted back to the central headquarters. He was out riding in the northeast quadrant when he cut the sign of twenty head of cattle being driven away from the ranch by four riders.
Being roundup time, it was possible cowboys from a neighboring ranch had ventured onto Triple C range looking for strayed cattle and were driving them home—except they were riding unshod ponies. The trail was fresh and easy to follow, not more than an hour old. Shorty swung his horse alongside it and pushed the snip-nosed bay into a slow lope.
He scanned the muscular Montana land ahead of him and occasionally looked at the trail to be sure it didn’t take any abrupt turns. He wished for his rifle back in the bunkhouse, but it got in the way when he was tending cattle. His pistol was loaded, and he had a spare in the saddlebag. He didn’t expect the thieving Indians to make a fight of it. Usually they just scattered across the plains and regrouped elsewhere, then slunk back like a pack of coyotes to raid again.
The country was getting rougher as the trail wound around the jutting base of a butte. When Shorty rounded the point, a bunch of cattle with Triple C brands were spreading out to graze on sun-cured yellow grass. He yanked back on the reins, setting the bay on its haunches.
One minute, there was stillness broken only by the grunting breath of his snorting horse, the jangle of bridle chains, and the groan of his saddle leather. There was no sign of Indians, horses, or riders.
In the span of seconds it took Shorty to absorb the scene, the air was ripped by shrill whoops. There were five of them, coming at him from all sides. As he grabbed for his gun, Shorty wondered how he had missed cutting the fifth rider’s sign. He must have been lying to the side.
There wasn’t any cover. He was trapped, flat-out in the open, and they had rifles. His gun hadn’t cleared leather when he sank his spurs into the bay and raced it for the middle of the bunched cattle. Explosions rent the air as bullets whined all around him.
He was in deep trouble and he knew it, with three pressing after him from behind and two screaming savages angling at him from the front. It was a cool September day, but sweat was streaming down his forehead as he snapped off three shots at the Indian coming from the right front. The Indian slumped, and Shorty had his opening.
Then something jerked his arm. A second later, it felt like a fist had plowed into h
is back. The force of it shoved him forward onto the bay’s neck. A weird numbness seemed to go through his limbs. He didn’t feel like he was in the saddle at all. Blackness was closing in, narrowing his vision. He couldn’t seem to breathe or sit up.
The bay mustang was running for all its worth. Shorty’s head was resting against its stretched-out neck. His blurring eyes saw the riders giving chase. For a confused second he was sure one of them was white. The last thing he remembered was wrapping the reins around his wrist and wondering why he couldn’t feel it.
The clothes hanging on the line rigged from a corner of the cabin to a tree were cool to Lorna’s touch but they were dry. She checked the pair of pants that had once belonged to young Joe Dollarhide, but there was no trace of the mildew she had discovered when she unpacked the trunk they had been stored in.
When she glimpsed the horse and rider out of the corner of her eye, Lorna turned her head to look, thinking it might be Benteen. Her attention was first caught by the uneven gait of the bay horse, favoring the right front leg. Then it was the motionless body of the rider slumped against the horse’s neck.
For an instant Lorna stared until it sank in that the rider was hurt. She dropped the clothes and picked up her skirts to run across the yard toward the shed-barn to intercept the horse. Ten minutes ago, she’d seen Rusty outside the bunkhouse. Lorna yelled for him to come.
The lathered horse shied its head when she grabbed for the reins. She murmured something to the animal and moved to the limp rider. It was Shorty Niles. When she touched his right shirt sleeve, her hand came away sticky with blood. A bullet had creased his thigh, laying open his pants leg and turning the material dark with blood. Lorna stretched to put an arm around his waist to tug him from the saddle, and discovered the wetness of more blood on his back.
With a sudden shock she realized Shorty could be dead. She knew a moment’s fear when she cradled his face in her hands, mindless of the blood she smeared on his cheek. Relief trembled through her at the faint pulse her fingers found. She tried again to pull his deadweight from the saddle. Then there was another pair of hands to help her as Rusty arrived on the scene.
