by Joyce Armor
Yes, she had to do that and also remember not to order the chicken stew. The last time she did that, on a previous stop, she found out later she’d eaten prairie dog. And it wasn’t like she had much time to eat, anyway. It seemed she just sat down at these dusty stops when the train whistle blew and she had to hike up her skirt and petticoats and rush back to the train. A suspicious person might think the caterers at these whistle stops delayed bringing out the food so they could resell it after this bunch of hapless passengers didn’t have time to eat.
As the train slowed to a stop, Libby made her way to the end of the car and followed a number of fellow passengers toward the nearby dining hall. When she felt a pebble or sticker in her cloth-topped shoe, she stopped to remedy the situation, falling behind the crowd. After dislodging a little clump of dirt, she stood up, brushed her hands off and started off again when a drunken cowboy with a scraggly red beard and unkempt mustache stumbled toward her, his rheumy eyes aglitter. His once-white shirt was gray, his leather vest cracked and stained. She resisted the urge to take a step backwards.
“Well, lookee here what I found,” he chortled, stepping in front of her.
She sighed. She supposed the man could not help being whatever he was. “Please move aside, sir,” Libby said as demurely as she could, while suddenly feeling a building anger disproportionate to the situation. She had had enough of evil and indifferent relatives, greedy almost-fiancés, leering or grabby men, seat-hogging Polish or Russian ladies and annoying people in general. Should she just shoot this man or kick him where the steward said it would do the most damage?
“Gimme a kish, sweeting,” he slobbered, stumbling even closer. Now she could smell him. Ugh! It was a combination of alcohol, sweat and tobacco. And was that vomit she smelled?
She closed her eyes for a moment, then opened them abruptly. “A kish?” she said and tried to step around him.
As she attempted to pass him, the disgusting man placed a meaty paw on her arm and squeezed.
Chapter 3
Near Deer Lodge, Montana Territory
Garrett Winslow expertly wound his trusty lasso around his saddle horn and gently kicked his stalwart cowpony, urging him forward to pull the struggling steer from the bog.
“That’s it, you can do it, Hellif…Yeehaw!”
He had named the horse as a teenager, more than a decade earlier. The day after he’d surprised his young cowhand with the sturdy equine, his boss, Jackson Butterman, had asked him what the horse’s name was. Displaying his usual never-give-an-inch angry attitude in all its glory, the boy had answered, “Hell if I know.” Jackson had chuckled and replied, “Hellif. Hmm. I like it,” and the name had stuck long after the bad attitude left. In truth, Garrett had been overwhelmed by the generosity of the gift but not remotely capable of expressing his appreciation, still hanging on to his homegrown get-them-before-they-get-you frame of mind.
As the Hereford steer struggled up the little grassy incline and reached the top, the young wrangler walked Hellif nearby, jumped down and lifted the loop of rope from the critter’s neck. Deftly jumping back onto the gelding, he hauled in the rope and drove the steer toward a large herd bawling in the distance.
At 26, the lanky cowboy was one of the youngest ranch foremen in Montana Territory, overseeing the 21,000-acre Butterman spread. A fine figure of a man with thick sandy hair, most often slightly disheveled and brushing his neck, a firm jaw and soft brown eyes that could harden to stone, he had ridden onto Butterman land as a teenager, a skinny, undernourished orphan angry at the world.
Not officially, but Jackson Butterman had adopted the ornery youngster, molding him into a top cowhand, but more than that, teaching him the value of responsibility, respect and honor. Garrett’s mother and his much older sister had been duplicitous, cold-hearted women, which gave him a rather low opinion of the female species in general. So he did not envision a wife and children in his future, but women seemed to like him, and he did enjoy a lusty encounter in town now and then. But a wife? Never. The ranch was his life, Jackson Butterman, his ranch hands and cook his family. It was enough. It was safe. It would not disappoint him or belittle him or abuse him.
If he was lonesome at times, so what? Wasn’t everybody? And being alone was far preferable than being with a good portion of the population, particularly the female population. It was better than wishing you were alone, that was for good and certain. Garrett had experienced plenty of that. A trip into town could assuage his urgings, even if it did not permanently cure what ailed his hardened heart.
“Hey, Joss!” he called, over the din of the cattle lowing, as he approached the herd.
“Yeah, boss!” The dark, stocky drover, well-built, weathered and the quintessential cowboy in his chinos, chaps, sweat-drenched chambray shirt and crinkled leather vest, rode over to the foreman. He took off his broken-in black Stetson and wiped his brow on his sleeve before replacing the hat on his head.
“That’s the last of the strays. So you and the boys can drive the herd to the north pasture, and make sure there’s plenty of hay.”
“Sure, boss, I was just waitin’ on your word. I reckon we’ll be there and have everything set to rights by early afternoon.”
“Good, grab something to eat at the chuck wagon, then meet me at the Bridge Creek fork. We’ve got some fences to mend this afternoon. That would be literally.”
Joss chuckled. “How many men do you want for that?”
“Oh, make it three, counting you, and we can work in teams. The job’ll go faster that way. Set the rest to cutting hay.”
Joss waved and started off toward another trail hand. Garrett watched as his top hand called out orders and his men began driving the herd, which numbered close to 500. His mother and sister would have stuck up their noses at such a sight, but to Garrett it was pure beauty, the pounding of so many hooves, the bleating of the cattle and the horses straining as the cowpunchers urged them on. They were part of the cycle of life, these critters that would eventually be driven to market, herded onto a cattle train and wind up on someone’s plate in a fancy Eastern restaurant.
Several hours later, the fencing repairs completed, Garrett peered up at the blazing sun. It must be nearly five o’clock, he thought. He dismissed the men and decided to head back to the ranch house himself. On the way, as he did at least once a week, he sidetracked to a little knoll on the north ridge. He didn’t even have to pull on the reins. Hellif knew the drill and stopped when they reached the zenith. Garret looked out at the picturesque vista, with a meandering creek, grass this time of year blanketing the rolling hills as far as the eye could see and the snowcapped mountains in the distance. It made his heart practically sing to breathe the air on this beautiful site. He came here often to think, and sometimes just to breathe.
Who would have thought he could have come so far from that Kansas shack with a ramshackle barn, one broken-down nag and scrawny chickens? Certainly not his family, such as they were. His mother was an angry, bitter woman who took out her frustrations on her son, both verbally and physically. Once he was old enough to understand, he never blamed his father for leaving. Who would stay in that madhouse if they didn’t have to? And his sister could be just as vicious as his mother. When his ma was bitten by a rattlesnake, he had the uncharitable thought that the snake would probably die. But his mother did. The next day, his sister packed up everything of use, and what little money they had, and headed east, so he headed west. He was 14. By the time he arrived on the Butterman spread a year later, he was way too thin and angrier than ever.
He gazed out at the prime Montana land again. He swore it spoke to his soul. He sucked in a big breath of air, felt it reach almost to his toes and turned his horse toward home. Home. The word once was a curse to him, but not anymore. He had found his place in the world. This might be a good time to talk to Jackson about his plans.
The Butterman ranch house, a large, two-story log home with a wrap-around porch, provided another magnificent mountain view
. Nearby stood a massive barn, well-kept with more than twenty stalls; a large corral; a smokehouse; a two-seat privy; and several small cottages. This was the only real home Garrett had ever known, and it could not be more special to him. A stable boy approached as the foreman rode up and dismounted.
“Rub ‘im down good, Jody, and give ‘im extra oats. I worked ‘im hard today.”
“Yessir.” The boy led the sturdy quarter horse gelding away.
Garrett took a deep breath, hit his hat against his thigh, dislodging a cloud of dust, and headed up to the ranch house. As he got to the porch, Jackson Butterman stepped outside. A tall, muscular man in his mid-40s, the boss still exuded strength and a bit of danger, with his gently weathered face, jet-black hair and icy blue eyes that softened when he saw Garrett.
“How’d you make out?” He motioned toward a couple of wicker chairs and the men sat.
Garrett took off his hat and hung it on the edge of his chair’s top rail. “Found just about all of the strays, repaired the fencing near Bridge Creek damaged in that last storm and moved the smaller herd.”
“Good work. Carmen is bringing out some of her famous lemonade.”
“Great. I could use a glass. It’s hot out there.”
They sat in silence for a couple of minutes. Jackson studied his young foreman, who was not usually so quiet.
Garrett adjusted himself in his seat. “What?”
“What’s on your mind?”
“How do you do that?
“What?”
“Read me so well. I’m never playing poker with you again.”
The older man snickered. “Whatever it is, boy, just spit it out.”
Garrett sighed and looked in the distance for several moments. “I believe I have pointed out before, I am not a boy anymore.”
“Then tell me what’s on your mind.”
The young foreman took a deep breath. Jackson couldn’t imagine what had him so pensive. Then again, maybe he could.
“There’s a knoll on the north ridge overlooking that little creek.”
Jackson nodded. “I know the place.”
“I’d like to buy about 80 or 100 acres there and build a little cabin.”
Jackson felt relieved but tried not to show it. Garrett was not leaving or had not gotten a town harlot in the family way. He decided to have a little fun with him. “Are you planning to take a bride?”
Garrett stiffened. “You know my feelings about that. It is never going to happen. End of story.”
His friend and mentor sighed. “I know I’ve said it before, but just because you got a bad deal with the women in your own family, you cannot paint the whole female population with that brush. Most women are good, upstanding people. A wife will add to your life if you pick the right one.”
“We’ve ridden this trail before, Jackson. And I don’t see you with a bride.” He stood and stretched and twisted, as if he was trying to get a kink out of his back.
Jackson shook his head. “At least I’ve been there. Twice. And I’m open to it.”
Garrett softened as he sat. “Yeah, I miss Reenie. She was a little thing and didn’t seem very strong, but she was always game.”
“She was a good woman.”
Garrett took a long look at the man who had saved him. “What was your first wife like?”
“Oh, Elinora? She was beautiful and delicate and charming. And spoiled.”
“You never talk about her. How did you meet her? That’s not the usual description of the women around here.”
Jackson chuckled. “I was selling some cattle in Helena, and she was there with her father, who was some railroad honcho. She was crossing to the mercantile when a couple of yahoos came galloping down the street, hell bent for leather. I managed to drag her out of the way before they ran her down.”
“So you were her hero.”
“You got that right.” He looked sheepish. “She looked like a china doll, and she stared at me as if I had hung the moon.”
“What went wrong?”
“Well, her father insisted I join them for dinner that night at the big hotel. We were just enjoying some apple pie for dessert when the man keeled over. Just dropped stone cold dead right in the restaurant.”
“I guess there’s worse ways to go.”
“You got that right, too. She was distraught, of course.”
“And of course you felt responsible for her.”
“We were married two weeks later. It was obviously too soon and a mistake, but I suppose we had a week or two of happiness.”
“And you wonder why I don’t want to get married?”
“You’re young, and you can learn from my mistakes, Garrett. And I was even younger than you and dumber than a fence post back then.”
“Are you gonna sell me the land or not?”
Carmen, a cheerful, gray-bunned Mexican woman dressed colorfully in a flowered skirt and blue peasant blouse, arrived carrying a tray bearing a pitcher of lemonade and two glasses. She set it on the table between the men.
“You remove some of that dust, señor Garrett, before you think about entering the house,” she said, giving him the “I mean business” look.
“Yes, ma’am,” the cowboy saluted.
She stared at him long enough to make him want to take it back.
“You need a woman.”
“Not you, too? If I need a woman, I’ll go to town, thank you,” Garrett said, a little too harshly, then sighed. “I apologize, Carmen. I’m happy. Just leave it, okay? Thank you for the lemonade.” He poured himself and Jackson a glass.
Carmen looked at Jackson. “And you need a housekeeper.”
“You’re my housekeeper,” he said, leaning back to enjoy a sip of lemonade.
“I am your cook, señor. You do not pay me enough to do two jobs. Marie has been gone for two months. Hire a housekeeper or you will be looking for a housekeeper and a cook.”
“You’re content here. You wouldn’t leave.”
Carmen clucked, shaking her head and mumbling in Spanish under her breath as she trudged back into the house.
Jackson laughed, then studied Garrett as he sipped his drink. “Tell you what, if you get married and settle down, I’ll give you the land. I’ll even help you build a homestead.”
“It’s not the only land in Montana Territory,” Garrett ground out.
“No, it isn’t,” Jackson smiled.
Chapter 4
St. Louis
In the dark study at Libby’s former residence, the two amoral men eyed each other warily.
“How could you have let this happen?” Edward de Julius, tall, dark and rather sallow of complexion, with a narrow, veiny nose and straight gray hair, spat out. He snatched a decanter of brandy from Elias Parminter’s sideboard and poured himself a generous three fingers. His black waistcoat always looked a little too large, as if he were shrinking a little each time he wore it, but Elias Parminter noted he seemed to be healthy in his own paler-than-death way.
“Jesus, DeJulius, don’t get wrathy with me. My wife was dying; I was a bit occupied.” He sat down heavily at his study desk, wondering why he had ever entered into an agreement with this greedy idiot.
“Well, your wife is gone now. Where the hell is Elizabeth?” DeJulius paced, looking so affronted, Elias almost laughed. It was not exactly a love match.
“I’m not a mind reader. She could have gone anywhere, you know.” But he was pretty certain she had not. The sly Mr. Parminter was not about to tell Edward DeJulius he suspected his daughter was heading to whatever that town was in Montana Territory where Elinora had briefly lived with that cowboy that had spawned her. With Elizabeth gone, the game had changed. He had tried to do the right thing, to share the dowry with DeJulius to pay off the debt. But Elizabeth had gotten greedy. How dare she defy him? Bitch! She would pay. Oh, yes, she most certainly would pay.
Now he would not have to share the majority of the dowry with the other insufferable man if he found her first. He could pay
off his debt to DeJulius and still have enough wealth to restart his thoroughbred operation and do just about anything else he wanted to do. And he vowed he would find Elizabeth first. The girl was the only one standing between him and financial independence beyond his dreams, so he would not only find her; he would get rid of her. She had to go. It was unfortunate, perhaps, but it was as simple as that. It might not have been if she had not betrayed him by sneaking away, the stupid little bitch. Now Jackson Butterman’s bastard would pay with her life. And maybe she had done him a favor by bolting. Now no one would miss her when she disappeared for good. He almost smiled, but DeJulius might get suspicious, so he turned it into a scowl.
“She must have friends in the area,” DeJulius said, downing the liquor in one gulp and pouring more. Elias noticed his hands didn’t even shake, despite his fervor. This one was a cool customer, as ruthless as they come. It would behoove Elias to remember that.
He placed several papers in a desk drawer, and then gave his companion his best nonchalant look. “I don’t know. I suppose. I never met her friends.” He had never cared enough to find out who her friends were, if she even had any. He had forbidden her to have anyone over to the house. Children were loud and messy, and he would not put up with that. Who would want to be friends with her anyway? Still, it might be good to send her “fiancée” on a wild goose chase. “I can get you a list of her friends, though. I think one of them moved to Ohio.” That would be good if he could send him in the wrong direction.
DeJulius eyed the other man suspiciously. He was lying. It was obvious; it was written all over his face. No wonder he was such a lousy gambler. He might not know her friends, but he must know something else, perhaps where or who she would run to. Edward DeJulius was not a man to give up. He had been only days away from getting his hands on a very sizable dowry, minus a small percentage to Elias and erasure of the debt, and he was going to get it back. And this time he would not share.
