by Lisa Norato
The wind had picked up, and some leaves and loose twigs blew past their boots, scudding across the ground.
Holden selected a clean plate from the mess box and offered it to Shelby before grabbing one himself. “Care to join me?”
Right then she decided why question the sudden change in Holden? Just be grateful for it. “I’d be honored.”
Over a hundred cows and their calves had been gathered from the plains and driven about two hundred yards from camp. There, on the level grasslands north of Grandpa St. Cloud’s homestead, they’d been bedded down for the night. And here Shelby was, in the midst of it all, gathered for supper around a campfire with a bunch of young cowboys who had lived and worked in the nineteenth century. Caitlin would freak. Originally, Shelby had freaked herself, in a less enjoyable way, but now she was discovering a connection to this place, a love and respect for its people. She felt proud to be amongst these men who’d helped shape western history.
Holden served and they carried their plates to a grassy spot by the campfire. But instead of taking a seat, he stomped the ground.
Shelby stared, puzzled. “Um . . . what’re you doing?”
“Scaring off the bugs and crawly things for you, ma’am.”
“Right, okay. Sorry I asked.”
Both hands full, Holden crossed one foot behind the other. Then, bending at the knee, calves bearing his weight, he sank slowly to the ground without upsetting one morsel of food. He balanced his plate on his folded legs then patted the empty spot beside him in invitation.
Shorty, who’d been sitting nearby watching, encouraged her. “Don’t worry, Miss McCoy. I’m pretty sure anything that was hiding in the grass is long gone now.”
“Hey, who says I’m worried, huh?” Shelby challenged in tough-guy good humor. “Listen, I bet you I’m one of the first female chuck wagon cooks in history. And it’s not like I’ve never been on a picnic. So I’m not about to get all squeamish over a few insects.”
Then, to prove her point, she set her coffee on the ground and proceeded to plop her derriere down on the bug-free grass. With far less agility than Holden, unfortunately.
Holden bit into a biscuit and chewed slowly, chuckling all the while. “Insects? I was thinking more of snakes.”
Shelby was beginning to feel the blood drain from her face when Shorty interjected, “Aw, he’s just razzing you, Miss McCoy. But I’ve fixed you a nice bed inside the wagon with a tarp stretched over your head. Tonight, you’ll be snug inside in your bed roll just like you was sleeping inside a cocoon.”
“Thank you, Shorty. I appreciate that.”
Holden was busy cutting into his batter-fried steak. “And we’ll be standing guard outside to make sure nothing gets to you. No coyotes or mountain lions.” He popped a piece of the steak into his mouth and winked at his little brother.
“Ha, ha, you all crack me up,” Shelby barked with a sarcastic edge. She folded her long legs, balanced her plate down over them and prepared to dig in when Holden reached over and stuck a clean spoon under her nose.
Shelby produced her fork. “No thanks. I’m all set.”
“Miss McCoy, every cowboy knows beans taste better when they’re eaten with a spoon.”
With a raised brow, Shelby inquired of Shorty, who nodded it was indeed true.
Shelby accepted the utensil, and with a look of longsuffering, spooned some beans into her mouth. Much to her delight, she discovered they tasted . . . well, delicious, a welcomed surprise, considering all her hard work. “Mmm, I think these might very well be the best beans I’ve ever eaten.”
“I’ve got to agree with you there, ma’am,” Holden said, saluting her with his coffee cup.
Teasing out of the way, the guys turned their focus to their plates and they all ate in silence. It was Shelby’s first opportunity to sit quietly and reflect, and naturally, her thoughts returned to Ruckert.
The wind howled through the nearby aspen grove. Shelby sheltered her food with a hand, as dust blew up around her crossed legs. She felt a shiver in the air, then, out of nowhere, got the eerie feeling she was being watched.
The meal was winding down. Wylie returned and seated himself by the fire amongst the other hands. Shelby noticed Holden’s gaze follow the boy, yet he didn’t question Wylie about where he’d been or scold him for leaving his horse behind.
The smell of tobacco wafted around camp as the hands smoked. Tobacco smoke mingled with the aroma of coffee and wood smoke on the crisp, blustery air. From the prairie north of the homestead cabin came the distant voices of the night guard as they sang lullabies to the herd.
Beyond the horizon a low rumble of thunder was heard.
The night sky had quickly darkened with the arrival of a large mass of purply-black thunderheads. They crowded the sky and blocked out the stars.
Shelby could pick out the men by the dim glow of their hand-rolled cigarettes. She had a sneaking suspicion one of those glowing lights belonged to Wylie, and it was all she could do to hold back a lecture on the dangers of lung cancer.
One by one the punchers began to excuse themselves from the circle around the campfire to seek out their beds. Shelby’s heart went out to them. She smelled rain in the air, felt the humidity on her skin. After a long day of hard, physical labor, it looked like these men would soon have a bed in the wet grass to look forward to. Yet they didn’t complain. They deposited their dirty dishes in the wreck pan beneath the wagon and thanked her as they grabbed their bed rolls, looking for a place to crash.
Shelby prepared to wash the dishes. The quicker she got started, the quicker she could climb into the shelter of the covered wagon. Last to surrender his empty plate, the Scotsman, Duncan MacDonnell, tossed his cigarette butt into the fire and climbed to his feet when a flatulent sound ripped through the air. Not to be mistaken for thunder.
“Sorry, lass. It’s them beans to blame. Ye nae can trust the wee devils. Always talkin’ behind yer back.”
The punchers found this hilarious, but the most enthusiasm Shelby could muster was an uncomfortable grin, hee-hee. She’d never understood the male fascination with farting.
Holden swallowed the last dregs of his coffee, then gave a thoughtful glance to the dark heavens above. “Be prepared for an early start tomorrow, Miss McCoy. I’d like breakfast served just before dawn, so by first light we can get those calves corralled and commence branding and castrating.”
“Something to look forward to,” Shelby muttered, her sarcasm audible to no one except herself as another chilling rumble echoed down the plains.
A ragged streak of lightning speared to earth in a vivid flash of white-hot light. It illuminated the black sky. A terrifying crash of thunder followed, so loud it shook the earth.
On the distant plains could be heard the worried bawl of the cattle. A strong wind blew, whirling, as though originating from different directions. It howled through the tree tops and snaked among the tall grasses.
Duncan tossed back the bed roll he’d just removed from the wagon. “What d’ye want us to do, boss?”
Holden tipped his hat back on his head with a grimace that brought his dimple into play. “Ride out with Ham to double up on night guard,” he told the Scotsman. “It’s a gentle herd. The cattle have got full bellies and plenty of water. They’ve a soft bedding ground to spread out on. Keep on singing to them, and they’ll lie down and rest through the night. But just in case, saddle up some fresh horses, Wylie. I want each sleeping man to stake his horse nearby,” he shouted so all could hear. “Shorty, you and Miss McCoy make certain camp is kept quiet tonight.”
Holden’s younger brother gave a solemn nod of understanding, understanding which Shelby failed to share. Quiet? And did Holden think she was planning a party? Shelby was pretty confident this group wanted nothing more than to grab some shut-eye. And no one more than her. But nervous anticipation charged the air, whether generated from the approaching storm or the unease on the punchers’ faces, warning her of a more immediate concern
than sleeping in wet blankets.
“Leave Buck saddled for Miss McCoy,” Holden added. “You never can tell.”
Tell what?
Shelby was afraid to ask.
“I hope Buck’s named for his coloring and not a bad habit,” she quipped.
Her pun fell on deaf ears. “Take care of him,” Holden told her. “He’s the best night horse on my string.” Then he and his men took their horses and rode off into the night, leaving Shorty and herself to clean up. The half dozen remaining punchers unfurled their bedrolls in the grass. The remuda dozed a short distance away.
Shorty impressed her with the importance of working quietly as they washed dishes and extinguished the fire. Cattle scared easily, he explained. Personally, Shelby found the banging of a few pots and pans a lot less frightening than the lightning that blazed in frequent succession. Thunder boomed like the long roll of a drum, echoing down the range.
The dark purple clouds gathered with the storm, sinking closer and closer to earth until soon it began to rain. At that point, Shorty ushered her into the covered wagon and ordered her to get some sleep.
Right, like anyone could sleep with that sweet teenage boy still out in the wet, stormy night. But Shorty had promised to finish up quickly and take shelter beneath the wagon. Consoling herself with the thought, Shelby unfurled a gray woolen blanket. At her age, she needed the rest. In just a few short hours, it’d be her job to rise and start the cooking process again with breakfast.
She pulled off her boots and shimmied into her bed roll, fully dressed. Not even the hard surface of the wagon bed curbed her fatigue. Nor the flashes of lightning. Rain pattered the wagon sheet. A coyote howled on the distant plains. Thunder rumbled, wind blew, but the sounds grew more distant, more feeble, as darkness closed in around her, shutting out all conscious thought until she fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.
* * *
“Wake up, Miss McCoy!”
The voice penetrated her oblivion. Shelby’s eyelids fluttered in response, but she held them tightly closed, resisting. How long had she been asleep? Minutes? Hours?
“Quick, ma’am, you’ve got to get up! The cattle’s running!”
Shelby grimaced. Her brain processed the frantic tone, but the words made no sense. Cattle running? She hauled herself onto one elbow and peered with slitted eyes at a shadowy form on the wagon seat, then glanced past the figure into the black night. The rain fell in sheets, beating against her canvas shelter. Wind rattled the wagon. The bows above her swayed.
Shelby dropped her head back onto her makeshift pillow of empty flour sacks. She hugged her blankets closer.
The wagon bed rocked beneath her; someone had climbed inside. He clopped up beside her, stinky boots inches from her face. The stench of horse dung and wet grass filtered up her airways and Shelby’s eyes flashed open.
It was Wylie.
He reached down and cast off her wool blanket, rain water rolling off his hat brim into her face. She rose, sputtering.
“Stampede, Miss McCoy. Holden says to get you to the cabin pronto!” He tossed her boots at her.
“Okay, okay, I get it. How’d it happen? Are we in danger?” She shoved a foot into one boot, calling after Wylie, who’d already begun clamoring out the wagon. “Where’s Shorty?”
Turning back, he offered her a hand. “He’s gone to help. We’ve all got to do our part, Miss McCoy. You’ll need to stay alone at the cabin for a bit. Now, get a hump on.”
“Okay, I’m hurrying.” His expression told her this was serious, and Shelby didn’t press him further as Wylie helped her down from the wagon.
Electricity charged the air. The punchers not on night guard had leapt off the ground and were either hauling on their boots or jumping onto their mounts. A ghostly ribbon of fire danced between the horses’ ears. It snaked around the cowboy’s hat brims.
Wylie hustled her over to Buck and gave her a boost into the saddle. Already, the storm had soaked through her clothing.
Thrusting the reins at her, Wylie took an authoritative tone. “Let him know you’re not afraid to sit in the saddle, Miss McCoy. Buck’ll respect you for it.” He pointed north in the direction of the homestead cabin remains. “Now, ride on yonder, find a place to hide and stay there till one of us comes get you.”
He slapped Buck’s hindquarters and the little mustang sprang forward, easing into a comfortable trot. Keeping Buck at a beeline for the cabin, Shelby took firm hold with her knees, struggling to remain seated in the wet saddle. She rode head down, chin tucked, while the wind whipped a stinging rain into her eyes. She’d left her hat behind.
It had all happened so fast. She’d been sleeping soundly, now suddenly, here she was, fleeing into an electrical storm in the name of safety.
Help us reach the cabin safely, she prayed. Her childhood had been spent indoors with the piano. It wouldn’t have hurt to have gone riding with Caitlin once in a while. She might not be feeling so terrified now.
A band of riders thundered past and Buck’s ears pricked forward. He moved into a gallop, staring after them with head high, nostrils quivering to gather some faraway scent.
At first, Shelby mistook the distant rumbling for more thunder. The ground seemed to quake beneath them. Lightning slashed the heavens, casting a brief floodlight on the outlying area. On the plains beyond the homestead cabin, she saw the stampede. A sea of brown, muddied bodies, crowding and pushing on a panicked charge down a rain-soaked, grassy slope.
The inky blackness returned, enveloping her, and Buck bolted forward at full speed after the band of riders. It nearly unseated her. The reins slipped from her slick, wet hand.
The only thing that kept her from falling was the adrenalin surging through her body and a will to survive. She grabbed the saddle horn and stared at her white, trembling hands, clutching her one life line.
Buck had now joined the others alongside the stampeding herd. It was inconceivable she should be thrust back one hundred years in time only to be trampled beneath a herd of frightened cattle. And yet fear beat in her heart so violently, Shelby thought it might explode.
The stampeding hooves of the cattle thudded the hard-packed earth. Their horns clashed as they crowded each other. They bawled mournfully, a sound more chilling than even the thunder that boomed above them.
Shelby galloped on Buck through the saturated darkness, rain lashing into her face. She could not see the ground ahead, nor the Flying Eagle punchers or even most of the herd. She sat frozen in the saddle, every muscle braced, and strained in an effort to cling on. Every stride jarred her bones. She was too frightened, too sore to move or even lift her head.
She sensed a rider edging up on her right. Someone must have seen her! Holden or Duncan, Shorty or Fred. He shouted out to her, but his words were snatched by the storm.
Gradually, he cut in between Buck and the running herd, riding at her side. From his own horse he seemed to command hers and redirected her little buckskin on a path that veered off from the stampede, until they had broken away. Soon the horses began to ease their pace, and it was then the rider leaned over in the saddle and hooked his gloved fingers around her dangling reins.
Shelby breathed with relief.
Still, it wasn’t until several minutes later, with the horses traveling at a relatively slow trot that she felt confident enough to turn her head and look into the eyes of her rescuer.
Chapter Fifteen
Cattle were a scary lot. Stormy nights like this, the snap of a twig or a flash of lightning could raise a sleeping herd to its feet in an instant and send it fleeing with panic.
Those had been every man’s thoughts, and Ruckert’s among them. Chongo understood, too, and had shared his unease. Ruckert felt his horse keyed up with excitement beneath him and knew the cattle were ready to jump.
Presently, the ground commenced to hammer and quake, and from there, it had been every fellow’s race to get under saddle and hightail it after them. Ruckert had been off to help his brothers wh
en he’d noticed Shelby in trouble.
Without an aggressive rider or companion horse to set the pace, Buck had been known to travel at the speed of molasses from a jar. He was a gentle mount, but made for one heck of a night horse, who cared nothing for the darkness or ruggedness of the terrain when he caught a cow straying from the herd. He was trained to chase after it without orders from his rider. Buck simply had too much cow sense to turn from the thrill of a stampede.
Ruckert’s heart still pounded from the scare.
Steadily, he drew the horses to a halt, and Shelby raised her sopping wet face for the first time, turning to him with wide-open eyes. They got even rounder when she saw who it was that had been riding alongside her.
“Where did you come from?” she demanded into the wind and rain.
Her larkspur blue eyes blazed and her color began to return. Ruckert couldn’t figure if she were glad to see him or not.
“I-I-I-I have been here all along, t-trailing the roundup party, camping in the aspen grove.” Unable to let you out of my sight, he thought. He cast out his words without much trouble, but they were swallowed by the storm.
Shelby shook her head, unable to hear him. She shivered in the saddle, soaked to the skin and miserable as could be. With white knuckles, she continued to clutch the saddle horn, even though they were no longer moving.
Ruckert looped Buck’s reins around his own saddle horn and shrugged out of his oilskin raincoat. He slung it over Shelby’s shoulders and had to pry her fingers loose so she could slip her arms inside the mustard yellow slicker. As she buttoned it closed with trembling fingers, Ruckert slapped his black Stetson on her head and pulled the slicker’s red wool collar up around her neck.
“Thanks,” she mouthed.
He nodded, settling back into his saddle. When he’d thought her life in danger, he swore, if given another chance, things’d be different. He’d not let embarrassment keep him from being honest with his feelings. Vanity was an awful thing in the face of losing someone you loved.
