Courting a Cowboy Read online

  “But—.”

  “If you can’t follow orders, you won’t be on roundup. And this here’s an order. You leave it all to me.”

  Her mouth stayed open, but as he eased away from her he saw the threat had taken hold.

  His turn had brought him facing the bunkhouse and barn. Hands were accumulating like filings to a magnet. Some instinct always told them when a supply wagon was coming in.

  The rule was they had to wait until the supplies were unloaded at the house by Doughy and Mulehead before they got their hands on any personal purchases. But when they saw that the wagon held a passenger of the attractive female variety, he wasn’t entirely sure that discipline wouldn’t break down.

  At least Tinhorn wasn’t around. He would have broken ranks for sure, and made his way straight to the wagon to make the acquaintance of Miss Sophie Vandercook. Jasper Tinton considered himself every young lady’s dream from here to the Mississippi River and back. To Nate’s disgust, the young ladies seemed to agree.

  Nate made the introduction between Sophie and Edith in quick time, ordered String to see to the lady’s baggage, and rode toward the bunkhouse.

  He might just be able to get this thing in hand.

  With Bracken gone, and Sophie parked with Edith for now, that left him only every cowhand on the OS Ranch to get into line before any of them opened their mouths.

  * * * *

  Deposited on the front porch of a spare wooden structure set slightly apart from other, even plainer, wooden structures, Sophie considered the girl before her. String and the wagon were already disappearing around a corner of the building.

  “This is Edith," Nate Abbott had said by way of introduction. Then he'd instructed the girl: “Look after her. Give her something to drink.”

  For a moment, the promise of liquid distracted Sophie.

  Distracted her from the peculiar appearance of this building – as well as the others that apparently formed the headquarters of the OS Ranch – as if scrubbed of every last vestige of moisture that surely must once have formed sap when the logs stood upright in the forms of trees.

  And distracted her from the oddness of the version of nature that surrounded her.

  This day’s travel had confirmed what she had merely glimpsed from the stagecoach – Wyoming Territory was as unlike St. Louis as a rock was from moss. On the stagecoach, she had been wedged in the center, with other passengers, their hats and packages combining to allow only slices of views. Driving with String, she had enjoyed a view interrupted only by his slight, bowed form and the figure on horseback that paced them most of the way.

  From that vantage, she had observed trees huddled thirstily along creeks, mountains that rose with abrupt suddenness to the west, with brighter green vegetation banding the inclines before giving way to snow-whitened peaks. In between were rolling, dun-colored swells and dips that went on and on, with no distinguishing characteristic other than their pervasiveness. They appeared as desiccated as she felt.

  With that thought, the urgency of her thirst rushed back.

  “A drink –” she started, but no sound emerged from her lips.

  “And don’t talk her ear off like you always do,” Nate, the OS foreman – one of the facts she’d wrested from String – had added before riding away.

  “I don’t!” the girl protested to Nate Abbot’s back, before turning to Sophie and pouring out her brief history.

  The daughter of Jerry’s employer was of that particular age when a girl recognizes that she’s approaching womanhood, while those around her still consider her a child. Sophie suspected that that was particularly the case for Edith Bracken, who, as she was in the process of informing her guest, was surrounded entirely by men.

  “Mama died eight years ago, when I was practically a baby,” Edith confided. “He never says so, but I’m sure that’s why Papa came out here from Connecticut to run cattle. He didn’t want any reminders of his Tragic Loss.”

  Sophie managed a sympathetic murmur.

  She was prevented from needing to conjure anything more elaborate, because Edith’s eyes narrowed as she surveyed Sophie from head to toe and back, taking in the traveling suit beneath a duster now coated with the reddened dirt.

  “That’s a mighty pretty dress, Miss.”

  Despite her thirst and dust-dried lips, she smiled. Wyoming might appear an entirely alien land, but clearly the feminine interest in fashion needed no translation.

  Sophie considered the girl’s calico Mother Hubbard, worn into a state even more shapelessness than most of its kind, and so short that it showed not only the top of her boots, but a portion of her unstockinged leg. Sophie licked her lips twice, and this time sound emerged.

  “It’s quite past the height of fashion, I fear, but it is sturdy and so served me well.”

  The traveling suit was in itself entirely practical, with a modest bustle that was easily accommodated, even in the most crowded conditions. What Sophie now regretted was the vanity that had pushed her to wear a stricter corset than the traveling one she could have chosen. She might have more readily taken advantage of opportunities to sleep during her travels, and she certainly would have been more comfortable.

  Edith’s eyes widened. “You mean there are clothes more fashionable than that?”

  “There are, indeed, and I would be happy to discuss them with you if I might have a glass of water?”

  “Land sakes! Of course you’re wanting a drink – what was I thinking, keeping you standing here? You sit right down.” Edith pointed to a rough bench covered by a much-mended cushion. “I’ll be right back.”

  She was as good as her word.

  The water in the pitcher and glass Edith brought to her on a tarnished silver tray was tepid and not entirely clear, but Sophie didn’t think she had ever experienced anything quite so reviving. She allowed herself to lean back as much as she could, considering the constraints of the corset, against the front of the house where the bench was set, to listen to the flow of Edith’s tale about another girl in the neighborhood who apparently lorded it over Edith on matters of appearance and sociability, and to feel the moisture seep back into her parched body.

  After some considerable time and a second pitcher of water allowed her to feel significantly revived, Sophie became aware of the tall figure of Nate Abbott surrounded by a growing number of men similarly clad in the attire of cowhands. They gathered at the far end of the open yard, near a rough rail fence beside a long, low log building.

  She could not be certain after all this time, but she did not believe that any of the men there was her brother.

  An odd flutter in her midsection beset her. Excitement. But also uneasiness.

  She fully realized that she would not be feeling either if it had not been for the letters of this past year. These letters had revealed to her a brother she could admire – which was the cause of the excitement. The uneasiness came from the question of whether he would feel a similar regard for her.

  She had debated during the monotonous hours of her journey whether or not to confide her plan to Jerry. She had resolved to await their reunion to make a final assessment, but all in all, she was inclined to not.

  First, because explaining her plan would require telling him about her inheritance. She had kept that information to herself for so long that it would take a great deal of consideration before she told anyone. And to tell her half-brother could be particularly uncomfortable since he was excluded in this matter.

  In addition, men were frequently not as practical about such matters as women.

  The group of men was too far away to hear what was being said, even if Edith’s stream had ceased. But Sophie began to imagine that she could hear her name being spoken now and then.

  Surely it was her imagination, she decided, for the name she thought she heard was Sophie, rather than Miss Vandercook.

  “Edith,” she slipped in, when that young lady paused for a rare breath, “do you know my brother’s whereabouts?”

  The girl choked.

  Sophie poured her a glass of water, instructing her to take slow sips until she had regained her composure.

  “Swallowed wrong,” Edith said.

  She nodded. “I’m relieved to see you are recovered from your paroxysm. I’m certain you will forgive me for repeating my question, since you no doubt have forgotten if, indeed, you heard me at all.”

  But apparently Edith had heard her.

  “You have to ask Nate. Nate’ll know. Me, I don’t know a thing. You ask Nate.”

  The girl’s faith in her father’s foreman was touching, though it occurred to Sophie that Nate Abbott could have informed her about Jerry at any time during the long hours of their journey, if he had been inclined to such a courtesy.

  She kept silent on both matters.

  A new arrival from the direction of the corral beyond the barn changed the tenor of the discussion among the men, she thought. She was weighing how, exactly, when Edith erupted from her seat with an exclamation.

  “Oh, Pa’s back! He was over at the TS.”

  “The TS?”

  “The Shrieves’ place. Next ranch over,” Edith said. “We weren’t sure he’d be back today or not till tomorrow.”

  “From your next door neighbor?”

  “It’s a piece, and there’s some rough country between. Once took Mulehead near a week to get back, but that was in winter, and of course it was Mulehead,” Edith said, with no apparent recognition that Sophie was having trouble assimilating this. “Wonder what they’re all talking about over there.”

  Sophie put aside geographic wonderment and contemplation of something – or was it someone? – called Mulehead, to focus on the girl’s final comment. Yes, what were they all talking about?

  “With
your father returned, I believe we should go to greet him so that I may thank him for his hospitality. I do not want to be thought backward in my courtesies to him.”

  The notion appeared alien to Edith, but she was perfectly willing to be guided by Sophie in the matter, so they descended from the porch and started across the open space.

  CHAPTER THREE

  They were buzzing as bad as a nest of bees around a honey pot.

  Nate looked at the faces of the men surrounding him. Some barely sprouting fuzz, others tanned as leather. A few with book learning, others with honed cow sense, a few with nothing more than a strong back. Every one of them carrying near his weight in dust and grime after the long winter.

  Bees? More like buzzards.

  But buzzing all the same.

  All over a walking headache named Sophie Vandercook.

  He’d gladly wish to God he’d never heard the name if that meant he’d never have had to lay eyes on her. But in his experience, the Almighty didn’t deal in such bargains.

  “So she don’t know?” demanded Mulehead. “She really don’t know?”

  Since that’s what Nate had just told them, he might have been tempted to answer sharp if it had been anyone else. But Mulehead couldn’t help that some of what mattered had leaked out of his head each time the mule had kicked him. And he hadn’t had much to spare to start.

  “She doesn’t know,” he repeated. “And that’s how it’s going to stay. Everybody clear on that?”

  They were.

  “You’d best get back to helping Doughy, Mulehead, or he’ll have your hide.”

  Once he’d shuffled toward the kitchen door, Nate turned to the others.

  “Every last one of you’s got to watch what you say or this isn’t going to come off right.”

  “What are you gonna do, Nate?” String demanded.

  “Send her back.”

  A moan rose from the men.

  Nate shook his hand at the wordless plea. “It’s the only way. She don’t belong here.”

  “Our Sophie’s a lady,” Dally Hodges confirmed with mingled pride and regret.

  “That’s right. So she’s got to go back to Grayley and take the stage –”

  “The stage!” erupted from several throats.

  “By herself?”

  “We’ll get her to the stage –” Somehow, Nate added to himself. “– and then she’ll get herself back to St. Louis.”

  “But, Nate, a gentle-reared lady like our Sophie, shouldn’t ought to be traveling alone like that,” said String.

  “How, by all that’s holy, do you think she got here?” Nate demanded.

  “Still,” String said stubbornly. “She’s just a bit of a thing. Like a good breeze might blow her over. A man’s got to look out for a lady like that.”

  “You don’t have any sisters, do you,” Nate muttered. It was the only explanation for how String could have missed knowing what that upright figure and stubborn chin meant.

  Trouble.

  And here it was, starting all ready, with the buzzards buzzing in full agreement with String. Not listening to a word their ramrod said.

  “She can’t go by herself on no stage,” pronounced Hodges, capturing the mood of his fellow hands. “One of us’ll –”

  “Or two,” slid in young Gunner.

  “– have to take her to Fort Laramie where that railroad spur gets to now. Or Cheyenne.”

  “Cheyenne! Why not waltz her on back to her front door in St. Louis?” Nate demanded.

  “Well, now that –”

  “Ain’t happening.” He glowered around the circle. “You – every one of you – know what this round-up means to Mr. Bracken. A lot of you would have been trading in your saddles for town jobs if it hadn’t been for him keeping you on this winter when there was barely enough for a flea to do. We got cows to wrangle – not ladies.”

  The buzz shifted to a low rumble of discontent.

  “Unless you don’t want jobs. I can find other hands a sight faster than you can find other jobs,” he reminded them.

  “Stage won’t run for another week,” noted Hodges. He’d been with the OS even longer than Nate. “So from now until then, it makes better sense for her to stay here. We could have a dance –”

  “A dance,” other voices picked up eagerly.

  “Saturday night.”

  “We could get the word to some of the other outfits.”

  “Nah, don’t want any of them horning in.”

  “String can play the harmonica, but we need a fiddler.”

  “I can fiddle some,” Royal King offered.

  “No fiddling. No harmonica. No dance.” Having gained their attention, Nate lowered his voice to its normal pitch to add, “The only dancing we’re any of us doing is with those cows at roundup. And till then we’re going to use every minute getting ready. And Sophie Vandercook is going back to Grayley soon as possible.”

  He raised his voice again to carry over the rising mutter of unhappy men.

  “It’s the only way. She’ll be more comfortable at the hotel there, with other ladies around.”

  “Well, leastwise we can take her to Merachade’s and get her picture took,” said Royal. “Only one we got is near worn out.”

  That was true.

  And it was true that Merachade, a carpenter who also served as undertaker – since he had the necessary skills for making a coffin and anybody could dig a hole – had obtained a camera nearly two years ago. He’d traded for it with some poor homesteader who’d been heading for Oregon, and Merachade had been selling likenesses just about ever since.

  He’d started by photographing his customers – the dead ones. Said they never complained about staying still so long – and families bought the final remembrance of their departed. This past year, he’d graduated to live subjects.

  “That’s right – one picture for each of us. So nobody can go getting his dirty hands all over it and smudge up her hair like –”

  “That’s enough,” Nate ordered. Lester and Royal had come to blows over that infraction three times during the winter. Another go-round was the last thing he needed right now. “And how, exactly, would we be explaining to Sophie why she needed to have her picture taken so many times?”

  With no responses other than boots scuffing the ground, Nate relented enough to say, “I’ll get Edith to ask her to have her picture took. Okay?”

  That drew some smiles.

  “And we get to meet her, right?” said Gunner.

  “Yeah, we all meet her, just like you and String done – that’s only fair,” Hodges said.

  Nate wanted to say no. Only because keeping the men from saying a wrong word would take every bit as much attention, experience and alertness as it took to prevent a stampede.

  Yeah, he wanted to say no in the worst way, so the taste of it on his tongue turned from sweet to sour as he swallowed it down and said instead, “I suppose.”

  A new buzz lifted among the men.

  Nate raised both hands, tamping down the air to settle them. “But nobody says anything to her – not a word. Not about Vandercook, not about the –”

  “What’s going on here?’

  Nate swore under his breath. He’d been so focused on the hands, he hadn’t noticed the arrival of Frederick Bracken, the owner of the OS Ranch. Neither had the boys – even though most faced the way Bracken had come.

  They’d been so dazzled by the prospect of Sophie that not a single one had given him a warning, even though every last one of them, right down to Mulehead had had it drilled into them – especially this past year – that this was bunkhouse business. Not to be breathed about in front of Bracken.

  Last thing he needed in this instant was the complication of a moral, upright owner breathing down his neck.

  The men automatically stepped clear, allowing Bracken an open path to join Nate at the center of the circle. After a quick look around, no doubt to gauge the tenor of his cowhands’ mood, he focused on his foreman.

  “Well? What is it?”

  “Nothing to worry about,” said Hodges from the second row, while others buzzed agreement.

  At nearly the same time, Nate said, “String and I got the heck of a surprise in town,”

  What did they think? They were going to hide her in the bunkhouse without the owner knowing? No, they needed Bracken to take her in to stay in the house. For tonight, anyway. Maybe two nights before they could get her on her way back to St. Louis where she belonged.