by Nora Roberts
Without a word, she gathered Delilah’s reins in her hand and began to walk beside him. There was no use asking, so she didn’t bother. Part of her mind still registered the sights and sounds around her—the irritated mooing, the high sound of puzzled calves, the ponderous majestic movements of their mothers, the swish of men and animals through grass. They’d start branding by mid-morning.
“Look here.”
Jillian saw the small section of broken fence and swore. “Damn it, we just took care of this line a week ago. I rode this section myself.” Jillian scowled into the opposite pasture wondering how many of her cattle had strayed. That would account for the fact that though the numbers reported to her were right, her eye had told her differently that morning. “I’ll need a few hands to round up the strays.”
“Yeah.” Reaching over, he caught a strand of wire in his fingers. “Take a look.”
Distracted, she glanced down. Almost immediately, Jillian stiffened and took the wire in her own fingers. The break was much too sharp, much too clean. “It’s been cut,” she said quietly, then looked up and over into the next pasture. Murdock land.
She expected to feel rage and was stunned when she felt hurt instead. Was he capable? Jillian thought he could be ruthless, even lawless if it suited him. But to deliberately cut wire . . . Could he have found his own way to pay her back for their personal differences and professional enmity? She let the wire fall.
“Send three of the men over to check for strays,” she said flatly. “I’d like you to see to this wire yourself.” She met Gil’s eyes coolly and on level. “And keep it to yourself.”
He squinted at her, then spit. “You’re the boss.”
“If I’m not back by the time the cattle are ready in the corral, get started. We don’t have any time to waste getting brands on the calves.”
“Maybe we waited a few days too long already.”
Jillian swung into the saddle. “We’ll see about that.” She led Delilah carefully through the break in the wire, then dug in her heels.
It didn’t take her long to come across her first group of men. Delilah pulled up at the Jeep and Jillian stared down her nose. “Where’s Murdock?” she demanded. “Aaron Murdock.”
The man tipped his hat, recognizing an outraged female when he saw one. “In the north section, ma’am, rounding up calves.”
“There’s a break in the fence,” she said briefly. “Some of my men are coming over to look for strays. You might want to do the same.”
“Yes, ma’am.” But he said it to her back as she galloped away.
The Murdock crew worked essentially the same way her own did. She saw them fanned out, moving slowly, steadily, with the cows plodding along in front of them. A few were farther afield, outflanking the mavericks and driving them back to the herd.
Jillian saw him well out to the right, twisting and turning Samson around a reluctant calf. Ignoring the curious glances of his men, Jillian picked her way through them. She heard them laugh, then shout something short and rude at the calf before he saw her.
The brim of his hat shaded his face from the early-morning sun. She couldn’t see his expression, only that he watched her come toward him. Delilah pricked up her ears as she scented the stallion and sidestepped skittishly.
Aaron waited until they were side by side. “Jillian.” Because he could already see that something was wrong, he didn’t bother with any more words.
“I want to talk to you, Murdock.”
“So talk.” He nudged the calf, but Jillian reached over to grip his saddle horn. His eyes flicked down to rest on her restraining hand.
“Alone.”
His expression remained placid—but she still couldn’t see his eyes. Signaling to one of his men to take charge of the maverick, Aaron turned his horse and walked farther north. “You’ll have to keep it short, I haven’t got time to socialize right now.”
“This isn’t a social call,” she bit off, controlling Delilah as the mare eyed the stallion cautiously.
“So I gathered. What’s the problem?”
When she was certain they were out of earshot, Jillian pulled up her mount. “There’s a break in the west boundary line.”
He looked over her head to watch his men. “You want one of my hands to fix it?”
“I want to know who cut it.”
His eyes came back to hers quickly. She could see only that they were dark. The single sign of his mood was the sudden nervous shift of his stallion. Aaron controlled him without taking his eyes off Jillian. “Cut it?”
“That’s right.” Her voice was even now, with rage bubbling just beneath. “Gil found it, and I saw it myself.”
Very slowly he tipped back his hat. For the first time she saw his face unshadowed. She’d seen that expression once before—when it had loomed over her as he pinned her to the ground in Samson’s corral. “What are you accusing me of?”
“I’m telling you what I know.” Her eyes caught the slant of the morning sun and glittered with it. “You can take it from there.”
In what seemed to be a very calm, very deliberate motion, he reached over and gathered the front of her jacket in his hand. “I don’t cut fence.”
She didn’t jerk away from him and her gaze remained steady. A single stray breeze stirred the flame-colored curls that flowed from her hat. “Maybe you don’t, but you’ve got a lot of men working your place. Three of my men are in your pasture now, rounding up my strays. I’m missing some cows.”
“I’ll send some men to check your herd for any of mine.”
“I already suggested that to one of your hands in the border pasture.”
He nodded, but his eyes remained very intense and very angry. “A wire can be cut from either side, Jillian.”
Dumbfounded, she stared at him. Rage boiled out as she knocked his hand away from her jacket. “That’s ridiculous. I wouldn’t be telling you about the damn wire if I’d cut it.”
Aaron watched her settle her moody mare before he gave her a grim smile. “You have a lot of men working your place,” he repeated.
As she continued to stare her angry color drained. Hurt and anger hadn’t allowed her to think through the logic of it. Some of her men she’d known and trusted for years. Others—they came and they went, earning a stake, then drifting to another ranch, another county. You rarely knew their names, only their faces. But it was her count that was short, she reminded herself.
“You missing any cattle?” she demanded.
“I’ll let you know.”
“I’ll be doing a thorough count in the west section.” She turned away to stare at the rising sun. It could’ve been one of her men just as easily as it could’ve been one of his. And she was responsible for everyone who was on Utopia’s payroll. She had to face that. “I’ve no use for your beef, Aaron,” she said quietly.
“Any more than I do for yours.”
“It wouldn’t be the first time.” When she looked back at him, her chin stayed up. “The Murdocks made a habit out of cutting Baron wire.”
“You want to go back eighty years?” he demanded. “There’s two sides to a story, Jillian, just like there’s two sides to a line. You and I weren’t even alive then, what the hell difference does it make to us?”
“I don’t know, but it happened—it could happen again. Clay may be gone, but your father still has some bad feelings.”
Temper sprang back into his eyes. “Maybe he dragged himself out here and cut the wire so he could cause you trouble.”
“I’m not a fool,” she retorted.
“No?” Furious, he wheeled his horse so that they were face-to-face. “You do a damn good imitation. I’ll check the west line myself and get back to you.”
Before she could throw any of her fury back at him, he galloped away. Teeth gritted, Jillian headed south, back to Utopia.
Chapter Six
By the time Jillian galloped into the ranch yard the cattle were already penned. A glance at the sun told her it w
as only shortly after eight. Cows and calves were milling and mooing in the largest board pen and the workmen had already begun to separate them. No easy task. Listening to the sounds of men and cattle, Jillian dismounted and unsaddled her mare. There wasn’t time to brood over the cut wire when branding was under way.
Some of the men remained on horseback, keeping the cows moving as they worked to chase the frantic mothers into a wire pen while the calves were herded into another board corral. The air was already peppered with curses that were more imaginative than profane.
With blows and shouts, a cow and her calf were driven out of the big corral. Men on foot were strung out in a line too tight to allow the cow to follow as the calf slipped through. Relying mostly on arm waving, shrieks, and whistles, the men propelled the cow into the wire pen. Then the process repeated itself. She watched Gil spinning his wiry little body and cheering with an energy that promised to see him through the day despite his years. With a half laugh, Jillian settled her hat firmly on her head and went to join them, lariat in hand.
Calves streaked like terriers back into the cow pen. Dust flew. Cows bullied their way through the line for a reunion with their offspring. Men ran them back with shouts, brute force, or ropes. Men might be outnumbered and outweighed, but the cattle were no match for western ingenuity.
Gil singled a calf out in the cow pen, roped it, and dragged it to him, cursing all the way. With a swat on the flank, he sent it into the calf corral, then squinted at Jillian.
“Fence repaired?” she asked briefly.
“Yep.”
“I’ll see to the rest myself.” She paused, then swung her lariat. “I’m going to want to talk to you later, Gil.”
He removed his hat, swiped the sweat off his brow with the arm of his dusty shirt, then perched it on his head again. “When you’re ready.” He glanced around as Jillian pulled in a calf. “Just about done—time to gang up on ’em.”
So saying, he joined the line of men who closed in on the unruly cows to drive the last of them into their proper place. Inside the smaller corral calves bawled and crowded together.
“It isn’t pleasant,” Jillian muttered to them. “But it’ll be quick.”
The gate creaked as it was swung across to hold them in. The rest wasn’t a business she cared for, though she never would’ve admitted it to anyone but herself. Knife and needle and iron were used with precision, with a rhythm that started off uneven, then gained fluidity and speed. Calves came through the chute one at a time, dreaming of liberation, only to be hoisted onto the calf table.
She watched the next calf roll his big eyes in astonishment as the table tilted, leaving him helpless on his side, as high as a man’s waist. Then he was dealt with as any calf is at a roundup.
It was hot, dirty work. There was a smell of sweat, blood, smoking hide, and medicine. Throughout the steady action reminiscences could be heard—stories no one would believe and everyone tried to top. Cows surged in the wire pen; their babies squealed at the bite of needle or knife. The language grew as steamy as the air in the pen.
It wasn’t Jillian’s first branding, and yet each one—for all the sweat and blood—made her remember why she was here instead of on one of the wide busy streets back east. It was hard work, but honest. It took a special brand of person to do it. The cattle milling and calling in the corral were hers. Just as the land was. She relieved a man at the table and began her turn at the vaccinations.
The sun rose higher, heading toward afternoon before the last calf was released. When it was done, the men were hungry, the calves exhausted and bawling pitifully for their mothers.
Hot and hungry herself, Jillian sat on a handy crate and wiped the grime from her face. Her shirt stuck to her with patches of wet cutting through the dirt. That was only the first hundred, she thought as she arched her back. They wouldn’t finish with the spring brandings until the end of that week or into the next. She waited until nearly all the men had made their way toward the cookhouse before she signaled to Gil. He plucked two beers out of a cooler and went to join her.
“Thanks.” Jillian twisted off the cap, then let the cold, yeasty taste wash away some of the dust. “Murdock’s going to check the rest of the line himself,” she began without preamble. “Tell me straight”—she held the bottle to her brow a moment, enjoying the chill—“is he the kind of man who’d play this sort of game?”
“What do you think?” he countered.
What could she think? Jillian asked herself. No matter how hard she tried, her feelings kept getting in the way. Feelings she’d yet to understand because she didn’t dare. “I’m asking you.”
“Kid’s got class,” Gil said briefly. “Now, the old man . . .” He grinned a bit, then squinted into the sun. “Well, he might’ve done something of the sort years back, just for devilment. Give your grandpaw something to swear about. But the kid—don’t strike me like his devilment runs that way. Another thing . . .” He spit tobacco and shifted his weight. “I did a head count in the pasture this morning. Might be a few off, seeing as they were spread out and scattered during roundup.”
Jillian took another swig from the bottle, then set it aside. “But?”
“Looked to me like we were light an easy hundred.”
“A hundred?” she repeated in a whisper of shock. “That many cattle aren’t going to stray through a break in the fence, not on their own.”
“Boys got back midway through the branding. Only rounded up a dozen on Murdock land.”
“I see.” She let out a long breath. “Then it doesn’t look like the wire was cut for mischief, does it?”
“Nope.”
“I want an accurate head count in the morning, down to the last calf. Start with the west pasture.” She looked down at her hands. They were filthy. Her fingers ached. It was as innate in her to work for what was hers as it was to fight for it. “Gil, the chances are pretty good that someone on the Murdock payroll’s rustling our cattle, maybe for the Double M, but more likely for themselves.”
He tugged on his ear. “Maybe.”
“Or, it’s one of our own.”
He met her eyes calmly. He’d wondered if that would occur to her. “Just as likely,” he said simply. “Murdock might find his numbers light too.”
“I want that head count by sundown tomorrow.” She rose to face him. “Pick men you’re sure of, no one that’s been here less than a season. Men who know how to keep their thoughts to themselves.”
He nodded, understanding the need for discretion. Rustling wasn’t any less deadly a foe than it had been a century before. “You gonna work with Murdock on this?”
“If I have to.” She remembered the fury on his face—something she recognized as angry pride. She had plenty of that herself. The sigh came before she could prevent it and spoke of weariness. “Go get something to eat.”
“You coming?”
“No.” She walked back to Delilah and hefted the saddle. Mechanically she began to hook cinches and tighten them. In the corral the cattle were beginning to calm.
When she’d finished, Gil tapped her on the shoulder. Turning her head, she saw him hold out a thick biscuit crammed with meat.
“You eat this, damn it,” he said gruffly. “You’re going to blow away in a high wind if you keep it up.”
Accepting the biscuit, she took a huge bite. “You mangy old dog,” she muttered with her mouth full. Then, because no one was around to see and razz him, she kissed both his cheeks. Though it pleased him, he cursed her for it and made her laugh as she vaulted into the saddle.
Jillian trotted the mare out of the ranch yard, then, turning toward solitude, rode her hard.
To satisfy her own curiosity, she headed for the west pasture first. Riding slowly now, she checked the repaired fence, then began to count the cattle still grazing. It didn’t take long for her to conclude that Gil’s estimate had been very close to the mark. A hundred head. Closing her eyes, she tried to think calmly.
The winter ha
d only cost her twenty—that was something every rancher had to deal with. But it hadn’t been nature who’d taken these cows from her. She had to find out who, and quickly, before the losses continued. Jillian glanced over the boundary line. On both sides cattle grazed placidly, at peace now that man had left them to their own pursuits. As far as she could see there was nothing but rolling grass and the cattle growing sleek on it. A hundred head, she thought again. Enough to put a small but appreciable dent in her herd—and her profit. She wasn’t going to sit still for it.
Grimly she sent Delilah into a gallop. She couldn’t afford the luxury of panicking. She’d have to take it step-by-step, ascertaining a firm and accurate account of her losses before she went to the authorities. But for now she was tired, dirty, and discouraged. The best thing to do was to take care of that before she went back to the ranch.
It had been only a week since she’d last ridden out to the pond, but even in that short time the aspen and cottonwood were greener. She could see hints of bitterroot and of the wild roses that were lovely and so destructive when they sprang up in the pastures. The sun was beginning its gradual decline westward. Jillian judged it to be somewhere between one and two. She’d give herself an hour here to recharge before she went back to begin the painstaking job of checking and rechecking the number of cattle in her books, and their locations. Dismounting, she tethered her mare to a branch of an aspen and let her graze.
Carelessly Jillian tossed her hat aside, then sat on a rock to pull off her boots. As her jeans and shirt followed she listened to the sound of a warbler singing importantly of spring and sunshine. Black-eyed Susans were springing up at the edge of the grass.
The water was deliciously cool. When she lowered herself into it, she could forget about the aches in her muscles, the faint, dull pain in her lower back, and the sense of despair that had followed her out of the west pasture. As owner and boss of Utopia, she’d deal with what needed to be dealt with. For now, she needed to be only Jillian. It was spring, the sun was warm. If the breeze was right, she could smell the young roses. Dipping her head back, she let the water flow over her face and hair.
