Tom glanced over, smiling and tossing a wave. “Ya think you could help us a minute here, honey?” he asked.
Lark raised her eyebrows and pointed to herself with one index finger. “Me?” she asked.
Tom nodded, still smiling. “Yep. The other boys are off herdin’ up, and we gotta get this little bull branded before Slater has hisself a fit of apoplexy.” Tom frowned and grimaced. “If ya feel up to it, that is. That’s an awful sore-lookin’ cheek you’re wearin’ there, darlin’.”
“I’m fine,” Lark fibbed as the pain of deep bruising on her face increased when she smiled.
“Then come on out,” Tom said. “It’ll only take a minute.”
Lark nodded, fastened the window latch, and pulled the drapes. Hurriedly, she dressed and pulled her hair back into a braid. She gasped when she saw her reflection in the small mirror hung above the pitcher and washbasin table. Her right cheek was swollen and purple, her lower lip likewise puffed with a dark scab down its center. For a moment, she considered not leaving the house—for any reason—even if Tom and Slater did need her assistance. Still, inhaling a deep breath of determination, she nodded. After all, her face would heal, and she knew that if Slater had not ridden to her rescue when he did, Chet Leigh might have caused her pain and damage that would not have.
As she opened the front door, the frigid morning air sent a shiver through her. It was colder than she’d expected. Still, she hurried to the small fire where Tom and Slater were waiting. The branding fire was warm, and she rubbed her hands together before it, soothed by its heat.
Still mounted on Smokey, Slater frowned at her. Removing the black slicker he wore, he held it out toward her.
Lark smiled and shook her head, however. “Oh no. I’ll be fine,” she said, even as a visible shiver quivered her.
“I can’t wrastle that bull to the ground with it on anyhow…and you’ll catch yer death out here in this cold.” He tossed the coat to her, and she caught it, awkwardly slipping her arms through the sleeves and bunching them up to her elbows. The slicker was blissfully warm—warm from Slater’s having worn it, from the heat of his body. It smelled heavenly—of jerky and leather and wind.
“Slater’s gonna rope him and wrastle him down. I’ll help hold him, and you put the brand to him. All right?” Tom asked as Slater rode toward the corral fencing in the young bull.
“What?” Lark exclaimed. “Surely…surely you’re only teasing me. Aren’t you?”
Tom laughed and removed his gloves.
“Here,” he began, helping her to pull the gloves on. “It ain’t hard. See…the gloves will protect yer hands. You just take hold of the iron by the stick end. See how the brand end is gettin’ hot there in the fire?”
Lark nodded, though still uncertain she could actually perform the task. She’d seen the men brand cattle before. It wasn’t that it looked difficult—at least putting the brand to the animal’s hindquarters. It was that she knew it must hurt the beast more than she cared to fathom.
“Just lift the iron out of the fire, get a good stomp on him, and push it hard to bull’s hind end there,” Tom explained, misunderstanding Lark’s trepidation. “Me and Slater will keep him still for ya…but ya need to be quick in doin’ it. All right?”
“But…but it has to hurt,” Lark said.
Tom chuckled, nodding. “I’m sure it does, darlin’…but it’s necessary. Now, you just brand him right on his left hindquarter. It’ll be over before ya know it.”
Lark shook her head, but Tom only chuckled as he picked up a nearby rope up and began to wheel a small lasso over his head.
There was no more time to consider. Lark turned to see the young bull bolt out of the corral and charge straight for them. Slater and Smokey were a length behind, and Lark’s heart began to hammer as she saw Slater wheel his lasso and spring it, roping the bull’s head.
Slater pulled the rope to tighten it around the bull’s neck as he wrapped the lead end around his saddle horn, and Tom sprung his lasso, roping the animal’s back feet. In an instant, Slater slid from his saddle, taking hold of the bull’s head and twisting its neck sharply. The bull rather toppled over, and Slater kept his neck twisted while Tom wrapped his rope around the animal’s feet, rendering it helpless to escape.
“Now, Lark! Now!” Slater shouted.
Gasping a deep breath, Lark took hold of the branding iron. Awkwardly she wielded the heavy iron implement, placing one foot on the bull’s rear end to ensure her balance and then firmly pressing the red-hot brand to the left hindquarter. The bitter stench of singed hair and smoldering flesh stung her lungs.
“Hold it…hold it. Press it hard, Lark,” Slater instructed.
Lark grimaced at the increasing stench and winced as the bull made a guttural sound in his throat. “Now?” Lark asked, desperate for the branding to cease.
“A little longer. You gotta burn it through to the skin and then some,” Slater said.
Lark swallowed and applied more pressure on the branding iron.
“All right…all right. That’s good,” Tom said at last.
Lark sighed as she lifted the iron from the animal’s flesh and set it aside. She winced, grimacing as she saw the smoking wound on the beast. She understood the need for branding cattle, but it didn’t mean she enjoyed having to do it herself.
A moment later the bull was on his feet, Tom wrapping his rope through his palm, around his elbow and back. The young bull charged Tom, but a sharp whistle from Slater put Smokey between them.
“Oh, he’s mad now,” Tom chuckled as Lark removed his gloves she’d been wearing and returned them to him.
Lark tried to draw a regular breath, placing a hand to her bosom to calm the hammering inside. She looked up to Slater and saw him smile as he studied the young bull. She frowned, however, puzzled when he began to chuckle.
“Well, he oughta be,” Slater said.
Suddenly, and without apparent provocation, Slater and Tom erupted into laughter—hard laughter—nearly uncontrollable laughter.
“What’s so amusing?” she asked. She’d missed something—she must have—for both Slater and Tom were so overcome with amusement they could neither draw breath nor offer a response to her question. Slater pointed to the recently branded bull as Tom wiped moisture from his eyes.
“He’ll never forgive you, baby,” Slater managed to choke out. “I know I never would.”
“Forgive me?” Lark asked, utterly confused. “Who won’t forgive me…and for what?”
“Wait. Wait,” Tom gasped. “I can’t hardly catch my breath.”
“One thing’s for sure,” Slater said, trying to settle the mirthful convulsions racking his body. “Ol’ Pete won’t want that bull runnin’ with his herd now!”
Both brothers exploded with amusement again. Lark sighed with exasperation. There was nothing she could do—no more she could understand until they were settled. Still, she couldn’t help but smile. She was used to Tom’s jovial manner—to his near constant state of amusement. But Slater was not normally so unguarded. The sound of his laughter was delightful—wonderful—and she giggled with the pleasure it invoked in her.
“What is so funny?” she demanded at last, however, stomping one foot on the ground. She placed her hands on her hips as she studied the fire, the branding iron, the bull, the laughing men. “Didn’t I do it right?” she asked, stamping her foot once more.
“Oh! You did a fine job, honey! Just dandy!” Tom breathed, putting his hand to his chest.
At that moment, the bull turned, heading away from the corral. All became clear then—the reason for Slater and Tom’s mirthful amusement. For the first time since putting the brand to the animal, Lark could see the brand clearly. She gasped, covering her mouth with one hand. In her haste to brand the animal, she had failed to pay attention to the position of the iron before pressing it against the animal’s flesh. Ordinarily, the Evanses’ brand, “Lazy Luck Five” or “LazE-luck-5,” was read as a backward E and an upside-d
own horseshoe, followed by the number five. However, Lark had held the branding iron itself upside down. Thus, the upside-down brand on the young Black Angus bull read simply 5UE—“SUE.”
“Sue?” Lark exclaimed, mortified. “Oh no! I’m so sorry! I-I apologize. Oh no!” She struggled to calm herself as Slater and Tom both sighed with amusement. “Can you…can you fix it?” she asked.
Instantly, Slater and Tom’s laughter erupted once more. Tom bent over, resting his hands on his knees as he struggled to breathe. Slater dismounted and assumed the same position. He wiped the moisture from his eyes with the back of one gloved hand, sighed a moment, but was near instantly wracked by another riddling of amusement.
Lark, however, was not as amused as were the men. She knew that bulls were valuable to a herd—valuable in any circumstance. “I do not see why you two find this so amusing,” she scolded. “I’ve ruined him, haven’t I? He’ll be worthless now…won’t he?”
Slater drew a deep breath and sighed as his irrepressible laughter finally subsided. Nodding, he answered, “Maybe I couldn’t sell him for much now…but I wasn’t plannin’ on sellin’ him anyway. I plan on usin’ him to sire me a nice herd of Black Angus.” He smiled and added, “And besides…Sue…it’s priceless in itself.” He smiled at Lark and chuckled once more. “That there brandin’ job…that is priceless!”
As Tom laughed a little longer, Slater chuckled and wiped more moisture from his eyes. “He can still grow up to do the job I bought him from Pete Walker to do…even if his name is Sue.”
Tom nodded. “What’ll we call him for the papers…Little Sue?”
“Naw, we already got us a Little Joe,” Slater said, still smiling at Lark.
Lark fidgeted uncomfortably, for the approval apparent in Slater’s expression was somehow disconcerting. Again she was deliciously affected by the scent of his slicker as it warmed her—wind, leather, Slater Evans.
“Well, he’s black…and already a strange breed to see…with no horns and such,” Tom said.
“How about Black-Eyed Sue?” Lark suggested. “After all…black-eyed Susans are one of my favorite flowers.”
Roaring laughter commenced. The Evans brothers were overcome with mirth once more, and this time Lark couldn’t help but laugh too. Slater wasn’t angry with her for the mistake—far from it, though she was rather astonished by the fact. The truth was she’d never seen him enjoy himself so thoroughly before. If Slater and Tom were enjoying the branding mistake, she might as well too.
“It’ll take quite a bull to live down a name like Black-Eyed Sue,” Tom chuckled, putting a strong arm around Lark’s shoulders. “Ol’ Sue will probably end up bein’ the orneriest bull in the county for the sake of tryin’ to prove himself a man,” he said, smiling at her.
Slater still smiled. “I knew a feller over in Arkansas like that once. His name was LaVern…and he spent every wakin’ minute tryin’ to prove to everyone he was as tough as they come.”
Tom nodded. “You might well have you quite a herd of Angus in a few years, Slater,” he began, “if ol’ Sue gets it into his mind that he’s got somethin’ to prove.” He tweaked Lark’s nose and added, “You probably just accidentally done my big brother the best favor anybody ever did.”
Lark giggled. Still, doubt entered her thoughts, and she looked to Slater for comfort. “Are you certain you’re not angry with me?” she asked.
“That’s the best laugh I’ve had in years, baby,” Slater said. Lark quivered as he reached out, caressing her undamaged cheek with the back of his gloved hand. “How could I be angry?”
Tom’s eyes narrowed as he tried to keep his smile from broadening. Old Slater Evans was falling fast—fast and hard. He wondered if his brother even realized he’d taken, quick as a rabbit, to calling Lark “baby.” He wondered if Slater even realized the way he watched her almost constantly. Tom figured he hadn’t. Slater wasn’t aware of the trace signs he gave away himself; he was always too busy noticing other folks’.
Smokey approached and rather nudged Slater out of the way—nodding and shaking his head as he stood before Lark. She reached out, gently stroking Smokey’s nose as he nudged her arm. Tom shook his head. Even Slater’s horse was dead gone on Lark.
Tom smiled. It would be mighty interesting to watch—mighty interesting indeed.
Lark smiled. “Thank you, Slater,” she managed, though her entire being was quivering with the residual delight caused by his touch. “I was afraid you might send me away.”
She was relieved when Slater shook his head and said, “I only send bad men away.” Removing the glove from his right hand, he reached out and gently took hold of her chin, turning her face in order to inspect the damage to her cheek and lip. Lark was terribly self-conscious, knowing she must look frightful. And she didn’t want to look frightful—not in front of Slater Evans.
“How’s that feelin’?” he asked as his warm thumb tenderly traveled over her healing lip.
“Better,” she lied.
“I’m sorry I didn’t get back sooner,” he mumbled, his handsome brow furrowing into a familiar frown. He gently pressed at the bruising on her cheek. “And I’m sorry I didn’t beat that boy senseless.”
Lark felt herself blush, for she was simultaneously delighted by his touch and heroic nature toward her but likewise humiliated by her no doubt ghastly appearance. As he started to put his hand into his glove again, Lark gasped as she caught sight of his bruised and bloodied knuckles. “Oh no!” she gasped, taking hold of his hand in order to study the damage done to him by his fighting with Chet Leigh. Carefully she ran her fingers over the already scabbing wounds on Slater’s hands. “This is terrible!” she breathed.
Slater pulled his hand from hers, however, slipping it back into his glove. “It ain’t nothin’,” he mumbled.
But it was something; to Lark, it was an ultimate something. No man had ever championed her, not in all her life. Well, once—a long time ago, perhaps—in a manner. Still, no man had ever fought for her safety—protected her with such sacrifice as Slater Evans had. Before Slater had bested Chet Leigh and sent him away, Lark was certain she could not have loved him more than she already did—but she did. Even his patience and lack of temper where the bad branding of the little bull was concerned caused her love for him to grow. She silently prayed for the ability to love him less—for she knew loving such a man as Slater Evans could only lead to disaster and heartache.
“Well, I’d better see to the boys,” Slater said. “We gotta get them cattle back to the fenced pastures before nightfall.”
“Oh!” Lark said, realizing Slater would need his slicker if he planned to be out rounding up cattle. Quickly, yet rather unwillingly, she removed the coat and offered it to him. She was cold at once—lonely for the warmth of his body that lingered in the slicker.
She frowned as a puzzling thought entered her mind, however. “I thought the cattle were all in already,” she said.
“We think Chet opened the fences and spooked ’em out when he left,” Tom explained.
“I’m sorry,” Lark apologized at once. “I’m…I’m…”
“It ain’t none of it yer fault,” Slater said, wagging a gloved index finger at her. He grinned, “But my bull bein’ branded Sue…that is. So maybe you’ll feel guilty enough about brandin’ that poor feller with a girl’s name…to make up a batch of them cookies I like so much. What do ya think?”
Smokey nudged Lark’s shoulder, and she smiled, reaching up to tickle his velvet nose with her fingers. “I think I might be able to manage it,” she said.
“Alrighty then,” Slater said.
Lark smiled and watched him mount Smokey.
“I’m gonna run that Angus back to the pastures. You comin’, Tom?”
“Yeah,” Tom said. “I’ll be right along.”
Slater nodded, touched the brim of his hat to Lark, and rode away.
“He’s really not angry with me for the bull…is he?” Lark asked Tom. She needed just one more
moment of reassurance.
“Hell no!” Tom chuckled. “I swear, that’s the hardest I’ve heard Slater laugh in years. It done him good.”
Lark smiled and nodded with gratitude.
“Now, you run on in and get warmed up,” he said. “Next time take a minute to fetch yer coat. All right?”
Lark nodded. She wondered if she’d be asked to do any other outdoor chores—for the truth was, she didn’t own a coat. She wondered if she could make it through another winter with just her shawl for warmth.
“Well then, we may not be in for lunch today. Might take us ’til supper to get the herd back together…though they couldn’t have gone far,” Tom explained. He turned and headed for the barn. “I’ll see ya later, honey.”
“Bye-bye,” Lark called after him.
She watched him disappear into the barn. In a few moments, Tom rode out on Willis, his bay mare.
“You have a good day now,” he called as he rode past her.
Lark waved and watched him follow his brother—watched as they rode Black-Eyed Sue the Black Angus bull toward the fenced pasture.
Turning, she hurried back toward the house. The air was chilled, and she didn’t want to linger. Furthermore, she had cookies to bake, and she wanted to have a nice supper waiting when Slater and Tom returned.
She smiled as she entered the kitchen. “Black-Eyed Sue,” she giggled to herself. No doubt the other cowboys on the Evans ranch would hear the tale soon enough—or see the evidence for themselves. Everything was wonderful in that moment. Lark had a home—at least for the winter. Things had settled into a comfortable routine, and Chet Leigh hadn’t ruined it either.
As she busied herself in the kitchen, Lark hoped the men could round up the cattle quickly. The weather was certainly turning colder. Slater had explained that the deep snows that buried the higher pastures each winter would soon descend from the darkening skies. The cattle needed to be close—to find protection in the windbreaks of the close pastures.
Weathered Too Young Page 9
