Neal unsheathed his knife and whacked off the tail of the mountain lion, then whistled for his horse. This evidence of victory over the enemy would be nailed to the flagpole for human and animal to see until it dried over time in the dust and wind and sun to an unrecognizable mangy string. The cat’s carcass he would leave for other predators. He holstered his rifle and rolled the end of the tail tightly around its bloody stump to place in his saddlebag, flushed with the deep satisfaction he always experienced when successfully dealing with any who would desecrate what he held sacred. The secret was in the quiet waiting, the patience to not make a move until intent was identified. Samantha had stumbled onto the identity of Dr. Tolman through loving concern for her father that had then sparked her curiosity about her birth, and Grizzly’s abetment of it had been innocent and unintentional. Likewise, Mildred had been caught in the snare of Samantha’s curiosity. She’d probably had no idea that her mistress’s daughter would be taking a ferry trip across the Red River when they set off for Gainesville.
So Neal would wait quietly, patiently, vigilantly, to see what his daughter would do with the new information she now possessed. He would not question Grizzly. The man might hang himself over what he had done, and Neal would not interrogate Mildred. He didn’t trust the woman not to leak his inquiries back to Samantha. At the moment his daughter had no inkling her father had read Eleanor Brewster’s letter or suspected her trip to Marietta, so he would let that pot simmer unstirred.
Meanwhile, what was he to do with the guilt of keeping from his child knowledge of the whereabouts of her real mother, who would then be able to inform her of the remaining members of her family?
Samantha heard a chorus of excited male whistles and shouts and turned Pony in its direction. Her task this morning was to drive heifers and cows into lanes that fed into holding pens for pregnancy checking. She caught sight of her father, lasso whirling, as he streaked off on a cutting horse in hot pursuit of a calf making a dash for freedom from the branding pit. At just the right instant, he let go the uncoiling rope and with perfect timing, its spinning noose settled cleanly around the young steer’s neck. Samantha watched as his trained quarter horse came to a full stop, braced itself, and pulled on the rope while her father, with a few quick turns, secured his end to the saddle horn. Then, with the speed of his rodeo record, he jumped to the ground, grasped the calf, threw it on its side, and tied its four legs together, trussing it for the branding iron.
Samantha shook her head, a raw ache in her throat. At fifty-five, Neal Gordon still had it, even when his skills weren’t called for, but so it had been for two months now, ever since he’d read Eleanor Brewster’s letter. But for that letter, he wouldn’t be out here this morning. He wouldn’t be working eight-hour days flushing strays from creek beds, draws, and gullies for counting, rounding up calves for market, rotating cattle to other pastures, doing the grueling work of a much younger, dollar-a-day cowhand. Tonight, as he’d done every evening since he’d discovered the letter hidden in the basket of figs, he’d drag home tired and sore in every muscle of his body, lower himself into a tub of hot water, and call for the liniment—from Silbia. Then, having taken supper from a tray brought to his room, he’d go to bed and wake at dawn to meet with the ranch hands to assume the arduous responsibilities that his age and prosperity had allowed him to turn over to Wayne Harris, the most competent foreman in the cow business.
All this unnecessary industry was a means to get away from her, Samantha painfully recognized. They were into the third week of June, and nothing had been the same between her and Neal Gordon since the late afternoon he’d streaked off to hunt the mountain lion the fourteenth of April. Its tail blew in the wind from a pole where the American flag was flown on the Fourth of July, a chilling warning to any who would threaten his domain. Samantha could not help but look upon it as a cautionary expression of her father’s view of her journey across the Red River.
No longer did they end the day with a tumbler of whiskey and a glass of sherry together in the library. Neal was “off the bottle,” he said. He took his morning and midday meals in the Trail Head and usually declined supper because he was “getting a paunch.” He was unfailingly polite to Samantha, still tender, still kissed her cheek before calling it a day, but there was a reserve to his affection that crushed her heart. She yearned to ease his suffering and make it right between them again, but she was bound by her promise to Grizzly. She’d caught her father in attitudes of deep thought these past two months, and daily Samantha lived with the fear that he would trace her footsteps to Grizzly’s kitchen office. If they could only talk about it, she would assure him that his fears of losing her to another family were groundless. She had thrown away Eleanor Brewster’s letter and had no interest in contacting Bridget Mahoney or pursuing any other line of inquiry into her birth. Neal and Estelle Gordon were her parents and she wished for no other, she would make him understand, and rely on his love for her to believe her.
Pony whinnied. He wanted to get back to work. Samantha flicked the reins to resume their task, but despite the warmth of the June day, she shuddered. For the first time in her life, in this her twentieth year, she felt alone. She’d sent her dearest friend packing and lost connection to her father. She could not go to her mother, as yet mercifully unaware of all that had transpired, or turn to Wayne and Grizzly, who must remain uninvolved. For the first time in all the years of being loved, sheltered, protected, Samantha felt herself an orphan.
Chapter Thirty-Five
A day later, Samantha pushed open the screened door of the Trail Head to hear Wayne say to her father, “Are you sure you want to go, Neal? Your backside has got to be aching from all that saddle sittin’ you’ve been doing the last couple of months. Send me in your place. I can go and come by train and be back within a few days. Take a breather and enjoy life.”
“He’s right, Neal. Let’s you and me go fishin’,” Grizzly said. “I hear they’re bitin’ like crazy up at the north branch. Mornin’, Samantha.”
It was early morning, but the ranch hands had already set off for the day, and the dining room of the Trail Head was empty but for her father, Wayne, and Grizzly who sat at the head table with hands around coffee cups. Her father’s and Wayne’s backs were to the door, and only Grizzly had seen her come in. Neal whirled around. Samantha was staring at him in surprise. “You’re going somewhere, Daddy?” she asked.
Neal resumed his position. “Yes, honey,” he said, bringing the cup to his lips. “To La Paloma. I need to check on the boys, see how things are going up there.”
Samantha walked around the table to face him. “When?”
Neal blew into the steam of his coffee. “I’m on my way in a few minutes. I was going to tell you.”
“When? As you were pulling out?”
“When you came over for breakfast after I’d left instructions with my number one man here.” Neal nodded to Wayne.
There was a time when those instructions would have been given to her. “How long will you be gone?”
“A week or so.” Her father seemed to have trouble meeting her eyes, and the other men, caught in the uncomfortable exchange, concentrated on their coffee cups.
“Does Mother know?”
Taking a last swig from his cup, Neal got to his feet and said, “I called her yesterday from the Triple S. I gave her your love.”
“I’m sure she would have been glad to see you before you left, Daddy. It’s been a while since you’ve been in Fort Worth, almost two weeks, in fact.”
Neal took down his hat from a row of pegs and positioned it on his head with a hard swipe of its brim. “Well, I’ve had a lot on my mind,” he said. “She wouldn’t have been happy to hear about it.”
Warmth flooded Samantha’s cheeks. It was the closest her father had ever nudged to the trouble that lay between them. Before that day in the kitchen, he would have shared every worry and concern disturbing his sleep with her. Let’s talk about it! she longed to shout at him, then
remembered the presence of Grizzly.
“You boys and girl take care of things while I’m gone,” Neal said, and paused a second, holding Samantha in his gaze as if caught in sudden thought, then suddenly strode to her and embraced her. He kissed her temple and said, “I love you, daughter,” then abruptly released her and spun toward the screened door.
Its slam hung in the silence along with the clatter of pots and pans and Spanish jabber coming from the kitchen, where Grizzly’s crew was preparing the midday meal. Samantha stood unmoving, her throat locking as she heard her father’s big paint carry him away. Tears burned her eyes. Wayne tipped back his chair on two legs and folded his arms over his chest. “All right, MG, this has been goin’ on long enough. Time to tell us what’s what. We’ve noticed a definite change in your pa these last months and not for the better, either. He’s been grumpy as hell.”
Grizzly gave her a long, pained look. Is it what I think it is?
Samantha answered with an imperceptible shake of her head. As far as she’d been able to observe—and she’d been looking—there had been no change in Neal Gordon’s manner toward Grizzly, so for the time being he was safe. Seemingly satisfied with her silent assurance, Grizzly removed a battered sign from under the serving counter that read KITCHEN CLOSED. IF YORE HUNGRY, EAT GRASS. He hung the sign on a nail driven into the outside of the inner door, closed it, and threw the lock. Coming back, he poured Samantha a steaming cup of coffee and said, “Sit down and loosen your throat on that, pretty girl, and talk to us.”
Samantha wrapped her fingers around the hot coffee cup. Oh, if only she could. “It’s a private matter,” she said.
Wayne said, “We don’t mean to pry—”
“Hell yes, we do!” Grizzly interrupted hotly. “So spill it, Mornin’ Glory. What in the name of God’s creation is going on between you and your pa!”
“Maybe we can help,” Wayne said soothingly. “Grizzly and me probably know your pa better’n you do, because we’ve known him longer, and we’re men. Men can’t express their pain. We go into deep, dark wells and stay there until we figure out what to do about what’s bothering us. That’s where your daddy is now—in a deep, dark well—alone. Care to tell us why?”
Samantha searched for an answer that would satisfy them and grasped the first that popped into her head, a substitute not too distant from the truth, one prompted by Sloan, never far from her thoughts. “I’ve disappointed Daddy,” she said, “and he’s having a hard time forgiving me.”
Wayne’s arms came apart. He lowered the chair legs to the floor. “Now, how could you possibly disappoint your pa?”
Samantha said, “He wanted me to set my cap for Sloan Singleton because he judges him the perfect husband for me and son-in-law for him. Unbeknown to Sloan and me, ever since we were children, my father and Seth had hopes that we… would marry and combine our spreads, but Sloan and I have… had a falling-out that has… put an end to that hope.”
Wayne exchanged a look of understanding with Grizzly. “That explains why we haven’t seen anything of Sloan for the past two months.”
Grizzly nodded, and Samantha continued. “Now Daddy is worried Sloan will marry Anne Rutherford, and I will end up an old maid and produce no heir to the ranch.”
Grizzly’s fleshy lips twisted, and he glanced around as if looking for a place to spit and regretted his decision to forbid spittoons in the dining hall. “Anne Rutherford, a banker’s daughter!” he snorted. “What a rancher’s wife she’ll make!”
“What Daddy fails to see is that I’m not at fault that his dream did not pan out. Sloan has no romantic interest in me. He’s apparently in love with Anne Rutherford.” Samantha resisted a visible breath of relief. They were buying her story, and she could see that Grizzly was greatly comforted and relieved by it. Her explanation could account for her father’s strange withdrawal from her and grumpiness toward his men, if a little weak under examination. Neal Gordon was worried that she would never marry and leave an heir to Las Tres Lomas. What man was on the horizon with whom she would possibly consider spending the rest of her life?
Wayne said gently, “And what about your romantic interest in Sloan?”
She blushed at Wayne’s knowing look. Good God! Could everyone but Sloan see how she felt about him? “What does it matter, since it doesn’t matter to him?” she retorted. She shoved away from the table and stood. “You can take down the sign, Grizzly. There’s nothing more to discuss. I can’t fix what was never meant to be. In time, Daddy will accept that.”
“Well, to hurry things along,” Wayne said, “I’d round up that steer of yours and repaint his horns. Neal noticed they were faded the other day when we went after that mountain lion.”
“Do we have any more of the red paint?”
“In the tack barn, last I noticed,” Wayne said.
“I’m on my way to Windy Bluff,” Samantha said.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Neal headed north, his throat throbbing at the last look he’d seen in the eyes of his little girl. He was leaving her hurt and bewildered, but there was no way around it. All would be explained in due time, and then she would understand the why and wherefore of his behavior these last two months and maybe forgive him. No telling what she’d made of the time and distance he’d put between them, but he’d needed space to figure out what to do, and he’d finally settled on a course of action. It hadn’t been easy. At fifty-five, he thought he was full grown, but Neal supposed a man never really did finish with the job of growing up. He reached a certain level of adulthood, knew who he was and what he was about, and then something came along to jar him out of his state of inalterability and forced him to a new plane of maturity or, Neal liked to think, to a more exalted height—like the unexpected situation where a man must put the welfare of someone he loved above his own, no matter the personal pain.
So he was off this morning with his heart aching on the longest, most painful journey of his life. Today was Tuesday. Neal figured that at an ambling gait of four to five miles per hour, taking into account road conditions, the terrain, some deep creeks to ford, and stops for the night, he could make around thirty miles a day, a rate that should put him into Gainesville in less than three days. He’d get a room there somewhere or sleep under the stars. The Holloway farm should not be hard to find, and he could accomplish his mission in no more than a day, then spend the rest of his time at La Paloma, if not with his original purpose in mind. Why would he wish for another ranch when Las Tres Lomas might not be preserved for future generations? That concern loomed almost as large and devastating as the possibility of losing Samantha to another family with their own dreams for her. Night after night these past sleepless months, ever since reading Mrs. Brewster’s letter, he’d conjured up scenarios that made him long to yank his imaginings right out of his head. He pictured Samantha unable to resist the biological pull of her real family. He visualized her embracing her brother—a twin!—and other siblings, if they existed, and imagined her yearning to live among them. He felt the pain of her loyalties split until finally she came to him, tears streaming, to say in a choked voice that ranching was not for her. She had gone along with his plans to someday take over the ranch because of all she owed him and Estelle.
He envisioned his wife shattered with grief and himself growing embittered and angry as he aged, drying up like the tail of the mountain lion strung from the flagpole. He couldn’t even be comforted by his original plan before Samantha came along for Estelle to sell the ranch to Sloan after his death, not if he married that banker’s daughter. How could that vain twit of a city girl ever feel the appropriate affection for his home that Las Tres Lomas deserved?
You always imagine the worst, Neal, Estelle often accused him in his preparation for disaster, whether or not it came, but he could not shake the vision of their daughter leaving them, moving away, marrying someone not of their kind. The image was even worse than the mental picture of losing her to Lasell Seminary for Young Women in Massachuse
tts. Have faith in Samantha’s love for us and the ranch, Neal, Estelle would advise should he tell her of his despair. She would never desert us.
But in his wrestles with his nature, conscience, and feelings during the past dark months, he’d reached the conclusion that it was not Samantha’s love for Neal and Estelle Gordon that mattered. It was their love for her, and so he’d made his decision. He’d thought of sharing it with Estelle to prepare her for the darkness to come, but as was his way, he’d reconsidered laying down his hand. The cards might play in their favor and Estelle be spared the pain he was now enduring. Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof, the Good Word instructed, and by it he would abide.
He was on his way now to the Holloway farm to meet Millicent Holloway, Samantha’s mother, and her husband, Leon, should he still be alive. He would identify himself as the adoptive father of the daughter they had given away, but he would not volunteer the location of Samantha’s whereabouts or a shred of information about her until he had an answer to the question he had come to ask: Did they wish to reunite with their daughter? An eager spark in the eyes, a flare of joy upon their faces—or the absence of them—would tell him immediately if he should return home to give Samantha the news her search was over or leave her never to learn of the existence of the mother or couple who once again had foresworn her. Neal would not have his daughter rejected twice.
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