This Calder Range

by Janet Dailey

  “He’s alive,” Lorna murmured as she struggled to unwrap the reins bound around his wrist.

  “Somebody pumped some lead in him, though.” Rusty grunted with the effort of dragging the body out of the saddle.

  Lorna moved quickly to help him hold Shorty up. With Rusty on one side taking most of the weight, she draped an arm behind her neck and braced his body with her shoulder, so they could half-drag and halfcarry him.

  “We’ll take him to the bunkhouse,” Rusty stated.

  The bunkhouse was alien territory to Lorna. It was unheard-of for a woman to venture into the sacred domain of the cowboy. When Rusty kicked open the door, she was assailed by the odor of sweat, cow manure, and the licorice scent from tobacco plugs. It was a filthy, untidy mess with dirty clothes sitting stiffly on the floor and pages from catalogs tacked to the walls. Lorna saw lice scurrying for cover as Rusty pulled back a cover on one of the cots.

  “This is worse than a pigsty,” she declared in choked disgust. “We’re taking him to the cabin.” When Rusty started to argue, her temper blazed. “You heard me! We’re taking him to the cabin right now!”

  Grumbling under his breath, Rusty hoisted more of the burden onto his shoulder and headed for the door. As they stepped out, two cowboys rode in. Vince Garvey and Woolie peeled out of their saddles and came to take Lorna’s place.

  “What happened?” Vince demanded.

  “He’s been shot,” Rusty answered. “She wants him in the cabin.”

  “I’ll get a place fixed for him.” Lorna hurried on ahead.

  Even if there had been time to fetch a doctor, there was none for fifty miles. Lorna cleared off the table so Rusty could operate on it and rounded up all the clean bedding she could find. There was a brief argument when Rusty tried to insist she had to leave because Shorty’s wounds necessitated undressing him, but he buckled under at her forceful determination to stay. She sent the children outside with Woolie and did what she could to help Rusty, holding the lantern for more light and dabbing away the oozing blood so he could see. Except for a few nauseous moments when he cauterized the wounds and she smelled the burning flesh, Lorna handled the bloody ordeal quite well.

  After his wounds were bound and dressed, Vince and Woolie carried him to the big bed behind the canvas curtain. Not once had Shorty regained consciousness or showed any movement. The pallor of his face seemed emphasized by the whiteness of the muslin sheet.

  “It’s up to the good Lord now,” Rusty declared as he looked from his patient to Lorna.

  “I think there’s some coffee on the stove,” she said.

  “I could use it. My hands don’t feel too steady right now.”

  Rusty was lacing his coffee with a shot of whiskey when Benteen walked in. Vince and Woolie had already filled him in on the situation.

  “How is he?” he demanded as he walked to the bed to see for himself.

  “He’s breathin’,” Rusty answered. “But that’s about all I can say. He was shot up pretty bad.”

  “He never said anything at all? Not a word about who did it?”

  Rusty shook his head. “He never made a sound.”

  Turning from the bed, Benteen crossed to the stove and poured a cup of coffee. Webb had slipped silently into the cabin behind Benteen. He stood on tiptoe peering at the cowboy in the bed.

  “Mommy, is Shorty going to sleep here?” he asked.

  “Yes, until he’s better,” she replied, aware of the sharp look Benteen sent her.

  “But where will you and Daddy sleep?” Webb frowned.

  “Daddy can sleep with you and Arthur. I’ll put some quilts in a chair and sit up with Shorty.” She took him by the shoulders and pointed him to the door. “Go outside and play while I get supper ready.”

  In the predawn hours, Shorty drifted into semiconsciousness. His mumbling wakened Lorna as she dozed in the chair next to his bed. She moved to quiet him and moisten his dry lips with a wet cloth. Benteen came soundlessly to the bed and leaned over it.

  “What happened, Shorty?” His murmured question brought a brief lifting of the cowboy’s eyelids.

  “Indians … run off … stock … ambushed me.” The mumbled words were faint, most of them unintelligible, but Benteen got the gist of the story.

  “Indians.” Lorna looked at Benteen with vague alarm. They’d stolen cattle before, but there had never been any attack on the men.

  Shorty curled his fingers into Benteen’s shirt. A bewildered frown clouded his pain-filled expression. “… thought … white man … with them.” He closed his eyes tightly. “… must have been … wrong.”

  “Sssh.” Lorna became concerned that it was taking too much of his strength to talk and firmly took his weakly clutching hand from Benteen’s shirt. “It’s all right, Shorty. You just rest.”

  There was a slight nod as he seemed to relax. She smoothed the covers over him, then turned to Benteen.

  “What do you suppose he meant about the white man?” she asked.

  “I don’t know,” he muttered with grim impatience. “He shouldn’t have gone after them alone, but you can’t tell Shorty that. He’d take on an army to prove he’s as big as anyone else.”

  For five long days and nights Lorna nursed him through fever and bouts of delirium. There were times when Shorty became violent and Benteen had to hold him down to keep the wounds from being ripped open. Lorna fed him broth when he was conscious and force-fed it to him when he was not. But Shorty managed to pull through the worst of it. Rusty declared that the cowboy was too damned ornery to die.

  Benteen didn’t attempt to question Shorty about his reference to a white man being a party to the rustling until the fever and delirium passed. But Shorty couldn’t shed much light on it.

  “Everything was just blackin’ out on me when I caught a glimpse of him—or thought I did.” Shorty was agitated by his own vagueness. “I can’t swear one of the riders was white, Benteen. The more I think about it, the more I think my eyes was playin’ tricks on me.”

  “It happens,” Benteen agreed.

  “I’m sorry. It just never occurred to me they’d be watchin’ their backtrail. I’d a-been more careful about followin’ ’em.”

  “Remember that, if there’s a next time. And don’t try to take them on alone. That’s an order,” Benteen added for good measure; then his mouth crooked in a playful angle. “Get some rest. I want you out of my bed and back in the bunkhouse where you belong.”

  Before Shorty was moved to the bunkhouse, Lorna attacked it. She started by moving everything out, then washing down the walls, floors, and bed frames with the strongest solution of hot lye water she could make. Over the cowboys’ objections, she boiled their clothes and bedding and laid them out in the September sun to dry.

  When she was finished, the bunkhouse came close to sparkling. Every bone and muscle in her body ached, and her hands felt raw from the burning lye soap, but she looked on the results with satisfaction.

  Her pleasure wasn’t shared by Vince when he stepped into the bunkhouse and wrinkled his nose at the sharply clean smell. “It just don’t seem like home anymore.” He mumbled the complaint and shuffled past Lorna to his bunk.

  When she mentioned the remark to Benteen, his reply was equally disapproving of her actions. “You didn’t expect to be thanked for interfering, did you?”

  Lorna realized she was fighting alone in a man’s world.

  When Jessie Trumbo returned from the Canadian drive, he reported being harassed by Indians during the trip. He figured they had run off twenty head of steers and ten horses, but no one was injured. After the incident with Shorty, Benteen gave orders for the men to work in pairs and carry their rifles with them. The same day Jessie returned, Zeke Taylor accidentally shot himself in the toe, and complained bitterly about ruining a good pair of boots.

  The black buggy didn’t stop by the cabin. Lorna watched from the window as it went directly to the house on the knoll. Her lips thinned into a straight line. Turning, she g
rabbed up the black shawl and swung it around her shoulders.

  Webb was running to the cabin to tell her of Mr. Giles’s arrival when she walked out the door. He was thrilled when he discovered they were going to the house to see him. Lorna was walking too fast for little Arthur to keep up, so she straddled him on her hip and carried him, while Webb cantered ahead on a makebelieve horse.

  Bull Giles showed his surprise at her approach. Usually he came to the cabin to see the boys; Lorna didn’t bring them to see him. Arthur wiggled to be put down. She let him slide off her hip to the ground and scamper to his big friend.

  She didn’t stop to speak to Bull, and ignored his questioning look that followed her when she swept by the buggy to climb the steps to the front door. The husky sound of Benteen’s laughter greeted her, its warmth sending a shiver down her spine as she paused in the entryway. Her feet were drawn to the study, where the sound had originated. The door stood ajar, permitting Lorna to see inside.

  Benteen was standing fairly close to Lady Crawford, so stunning in black with her dark eyes and silvered blond hair. It was a second before Lorna noticed Benteen was filling a glass Lady Crawford was holding. Liquid foamed from the bottle in his hand to fill a second long-stemmed glass.

  She could hear the murmur of their voices but couldn’t make out what they were saying. They were both smiling. Pain began to spread through Lorna. As Benteen partially turned to set the bottle on a wooden crate in the room, Lady Crawford cupped a hand to his cheek to turn his face back toward her. The action was so natural and familiar that a protest screamed inside Lorna. For a split second she glimpsed a taut yearning in Benteen’s features. Jealousy seared through her.

  Her hand shoved the door the rest of the way open as she stepped forward with an angry tilt to her head. “Is this a private celebration, or can anyone attend?” she challenged.

  Benteen made no attempt to hide his grim displeasure at her intrusion, but Lady Crawford turned and smiled at her with brazen ease. “Do come join us, Lorna,” she invited. “We were about to drink a toast to our first success.”

  “A toast?” Her feet hardly seemed to touch the floor as Lorna swept into the room to cross to Benteen’s side. “Is that champagne? How wonderful,” she declared with icy brightness. “I’ve never tasted it before. Do you mind?” She took the glass from Benteen’s hand without waiting for his permission. She sipped at it and pretended to like the dryly sour effervescence. “It’s quite good, isn’t it?”

  “Actually it is a poor year, but it was the best they had,” Lady Crawford replied.

  “I’m not experienced about such things,” Lorna admitted freely, and passed the glass back to Benteen. “Forgive me for not allowing you and Lady Crawford to toast the first delivery of cattle on your beef contract.” She wanted to let him know that she was aware of the nature of his joint venture with Lady Crawford, even if he hadn’t told her the details. His fingers were curled tightly around the glass, his knuckles showing white. “Are you going to dash the glass into the fireplace after the toast?” Lorna inquired. “That’s how it’s usually done, isn’t it?”

  “Very rarely,” Lady Crawford replied, and sent Benteen a private look over the rim of her glass when she held it to her reddened lips.

  “Was there something you wanted, Lorna?” Benteen asked.

  “Merely to say hello to Lady Crawford.” She fixed a bright smile on the older woman. “I wouldn’t want you to think I was being rude.”

  “My dear, I would never think that,” Lady Crawford assured her.

  “Would you mind leaving us now, Lorna?” It was an order, not a request. “We have some business to discuss.”

  A tremor of mutiny quivered through her, but it ended on a note of sarcastic surrender. “I wouldn’t think of intruding on a business discussion.”

  With a proud nod of her head to the English widow, Lorna exited the room. She didn’t slow down until she was outside the house and descending the steps. Her eyes were stinging with dry tears. She blinked to ease their rawness and missed the last step, stumbling to her knees.

  “Damn, damn, damn,” she swore under her breath, getting tangled in the long skirts when she tried to stand up.

  “Are you hurt?” Bull Giles crouched in front of her and reached forward to grip the upper part of her arms.

  “I’m fine. I just tripped.” Lorna kept her gaze down as he helped her up.

  “You’re trembling,” he accused, and Lorna realized she was vibrating with a mixture of anger and hurt.

  “I’m okay, really,” she insisted.

  “You’d better let me help you to the cabin.” Bull started to put his arm around her shoulders for support, but Lorna spread her hands across his broad chest to stop him.

  “No really …” Her protest died when she lifted her head and saw the undemanding adoration burning in his eyes. “Don’t look at me like that, Bull,” Lorna whispered.

  “It was seein’ Benteen in there with her, wasn’t it?” he guessed. “The man’s a fool. If you ever want to leave him, Lorna, just say the word and I’ll take you and the boys anywhere you want to go. I’ll look after you. You know that.”

  “Don’t.” She shook her head. “I could never leave him.”

  His big callused hand brushed the side of her face in an involuntary caress. The deep, gentle longing was there in his eyes for her to see. It changed the harshness of his blunted features into vulnerability. There was a faint noise, but it didn’t have any significance to Lorna until she heard the savage bite of Benteen’s voice. “Get your hands off my wife!”

  Lorna whirled around to face him. He towered above them on the steps. She whitened when she saw his hand on the butt of his gun. Suddenly a woman’s hand closed around his wrist to check any attempt to draw it from the holster.

  Benteen’s hot gaze shifted to the woman at his side. “Get him out of here before I kill him.”

  Lorna’s feet seemed to be rooted to the ground as Lady Crawford descended the steps with an unhurried grace. Lorna stared at Benteen, feeling the violence that emanated from him like a living thing.

  “Help me into the buggy, Mr. Giles,” Lady Crawford ordered calmly.

  Lorna hardly noticed her two small sons hurry over to stand beside her and wave to Bull as the buggy rolled away. When Benteen turned on his heel to stride into the house, a shudder racked through her body.

  “What’s the matter, Mommy?” Webb asked.

  “Nothing, dear,” she lied. “Let’s go back to the cabin, shall we?”

  The silence at the supper table that night was so heavy it nearly suffocated Lorna. Benteen had barely said one word to the boys, and less than that to her. The food was tasteless. She ended up pushing it around on her plate without eating it.

  After the table was cleared, Benteen spread his paperwork on it and turned up the lamp. It seemed impossible, but the tension increased. Lorna put the boys to bed earlier than usual, but a day of hard play had them quickly falling asleep. There was mending to be done, but Lorna couldn’t tolerate the thought of sitting in the chair near Benteen to share the light of his lamp.

  Sleep was the farthest thing from her mind, but she went behind the canvas wall and began undressing for bed. At least the cloth might serve as a barrier to block out the tension that filled the rest of the cabin.

  Her dress was lying across the top of the trunk. As Lorna stepped out of her long slip, the curtain was yanked back. She stiffened at the cold look on Benteen’s face.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” he demanded.

  “I’m tired and I’m going to bed.” She tossed the slip on top of the plain calico dress.

  “And do what? Dream about running away with Bull Giles?” Benteen challenged.

  Lorna was startled by his question. “Did you hear him say that?” She blurted out the question because she hadn’t thought he had come outside in time to overhear their conversation.

  “It was just a guess.” His lips were pulled back to show the even
row of white teeth ground together. “But an accurate one.”

  “Not really, since it was Bull who—”

  “‘Bull,’ is it?” He seized on her familiarity. “Not ‘Mr. Giles’ anymore.”

  “Stop it, Benteen,” she protested irritably, and half-turned, not wishing to continue this embittered argument.

  His hand grabbed her forearm to spin her back. “How many times has he held you in his arms?” he demanded.

  “He hasn’t,” Lorna denied.

  His other hand brushed her cheek the way Bull’s had. “I suppose that was the first time he touched you, too,” he mocked.

  “It was, but I’m certainly not going to try to convince you of that,” she declared, and jerked away from the derisive caress of her face.

  “How many times has he been here when I’ve been gone?” He twisted her arm to pull her closer while his cold eyes narrowed on her.

  “That question doesn’t deserve an answer,” she spat, and turned her arm sharply in an attempt to break his painful grip. “Let go of me. I want to go to bed.”

  His fingers closed on the straight neckline of her thin chemise. With a downward stroke of his hand, he ripped it off as Lorna breathed in sharply from shock. She struggled frantically when he scooped her naked body into his arms, kicking and hitting at him with desperate little sounds coming from her throat. The bruising grip of his arms didn’t hold her long as he dropped her onto the bed.

  “Isn’t that what you wanted?” he growled.

  For a stunned moment she lay there looking up at the labored movement of his chest, unable to believe he hadn’t intended to rape her again. It was that kind of violence she saw in his face. Just when she was about to accept she was wrong, he lowered himself onto the bed, using his weight to pin her to the mattress. Twisting and writhing, Lorna tried to throw him off her, clawing at him with her nails.