Deborah Camp (37 page)

“Hush.” He pressed one hand lightly to her lips and cocked his head in a listener’s pose.

Zanna’s heart was hammering so loudly that she heard nothing else for a few seconds. Then she felt the whole house shudder. The floorboards beneath her feet trembled. The room began to fill with the sound of rolling thunder. She had heard the sound before, but never so close to the
house. Zanna whipped her mouth away from Grandy’s silencing hand.

“Stampede,” she cried, her voice cracking on the word.

“God Almighty, they’re coming this way!” Grandy was out of the room in a flash with Zanna right behind him.

The dust cloud created by the stampeding herd was immense. The herd had been in the south pasture where the vegetation was thick and plentiful. The sky was clear; the weather not threatening. Someone had herded the cattle and spooked them in this direction. She recalled the gunshots she’d heard moments earlier and her rational self told her the stampede was the result of Duncan’s dirty work while her irrational self told her it was punishment for being dishonest with the man she loved.

Perkins and Lefty were astride their horses and headed for the advancing herd, but Perkins reined in his horse at the porch.

“Mount up and help us!” he shouted, jerking his head toward the animal he’d saddled for Grandy’s getaway, then he spurred his own horse hellbent for leather toward the thundering threat.

Grandy cursed under his breath and with a swift, graceful leap that took Zanna by surprise, he jumped from the porch and into the saddle. The mare surged forward with Grandy bent over her neck so that the breeze wouldn’t beat him in the face.

Zanna hurried inside to load the gleaming, oiled rifle she’d purchased after Fayne’s death. Her hands were shaking so that it took her twice the usual time to insert the ammunition. She tied a hanky around her head, letting it flutter over her nose and mouth to keep out the choking dust.

Repeating a mental prayer, she strode across the uneven land to just past the stables where she stopped, rifle in hand, and stood stonily looking toward the advancing cloud. She watched alertly, the rifle barrel pointing toward the sky. She’d use it if the herd wasn’t turned before long.
It would be her last stand to save her home and farm animals. Her lips trembled and she swallowed a knot of tears in her throat. She
had
to stop them … she
had
to …

… stay in the saddle, son, Grandy told himself as he dug in his knees and reined the mare closer to the edge of the wild herd. Losing his seat in the middle of a stampede was every cowboy’s nightmare. The handkerchief he’d tied around the lower half of his face cut down on some of the dust, but not all. It was like breathing stove silt. The mare beneath him was lathered, more from nerves than exertion, Grandy figured. He was nervous himself, being so close to the raging herd that he could see the whites of the steers’ eyes as they rolled up in maddened fear.

Across the sea of chestnut bodies, Grandy saw Perkins give a “come around” sign. Grandy dug in his spurs, urging his horse into a stretched-out sprint. At first, Grandy didn’t think the horse was gaining on the herd, but then it seemed mat time had been frozen and was suddenly racing ahead. Grandy’s horse closed in on the front of the herd.

How much weight have they run off already? the rancher in him wondered while the cowboy within wrestled with the reins and held on tight as the wind slammed into his chest. Grit clawed at his eyes, making them water so that it was almost impossible to see anything clearly. He was aware only of shapes, shadows, blurs. Had his horse been blinded, too?

Bending low over the animal’s lathered neck, Grandy held his breath as the last few feet disappeared and his mount drew even with and then shot past the front of the herd. Grandy reined the horse sharply sideways, cutting them off. He shouted at the top of his lungs, whipped off his hat, and waved it frantically to get the lead steers’ attention and scare them into another direction.

The other cowboys were performing similar tasks, their voices reaching Grandy like distant echoes of his own
cries. Perkins and his dappled-gray mare flashed past Grandy, going in the opposite direction. Keeping his eye on Perkins, Grandy worked with the foreman to criss-cross in front of the herd. Perkins popped a bullwhip and Lefty and Donny fired six-shooters, making the steers bellow and try to veer away from the crazy cowboys blocking their direct path.

Having lost all sense of direction, Grandy twisted in the saddle to see how far the herd was from the ranch buildings. His heart climbed into his throat when he saw they were less than a half a mile from the stables. Incredibly, Zanna stood in front of the corral fence with a rifle in her hands and a handkerchief covering most of her face. Didn’t she realize she would be trampled to bits if the herd didn’t turn?

Determination locked its jaws around him and gave him a good, hard shake. Grandy yelled his horse into an even faster gallop and reined in as close to the herd as he dared. He was so near that he slapped one of the steers with his hat as he yelled and kicked and flailed his arms.

“Turn, cow! Whoa, cow! Whoa, whoa, whoa!” He yelled at the top of his lungs until his throat felt as if it were raw and bleeding.

Confusion blew through the herd, making some rear up and others stop dead. The middle of the herd began to veer left, then the back stragglers turned, and finally the front of the herd cut its speed and swung wide left. Grandy let out a whoop, followed by a yipping from Packsaddle’s stock dogs, four black-and-white-splashed hounds that had joined in the rescue operation. Grandy acknowledged Perkins’s broad grin with another loud whoop, then settled down enough to make sure that the herd kept arcing away from the ranch buildings where a foolish woman stood sentry.

It took another hour for Grandy and the others to drive the cattle back to the south pasture, then check on those that had been injured in the stampede. Twenty-two had to
be shot, having broken their legs or been trampled; ten of them were calves. Butch joined the men to help butcher some of the downed steers.

“Damn it all,” Grandy muttered, standing over one of the dead calves. “That rotten son-of-a-bitch.”

“Who are you talking about?” Perkins asked.

Grandy sent him a scowl. “Don’t stand there and tell me you don’t know what’s happening under your own nose, Perkins. I don’t have much respect for men who are blind to suffering.”

Perkins gave him a long, cold stare which Grandy held longer.

“Are you saying you don’t respect me?” Perkins asked.

“I’m saying the time for turning the other cheek is over, pard. This is war. You’re either with us or against us. There’s no fence-straddling allowed anymore.”

“I ain’t never been agin’ Miss Zanna. Never.”

“But you never raised a hand to keep her from being slapped around, did you?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about …” Perkins started to turn away, but Grandy spun him back around by the shoulder.

“Hold up,” Grandy said between clenched teeth. “She told me about Fayne. Don’t stand there and lie to me, Cal. All I’m saying is that she needs the ranch hands beside her, not acting like they’re deaf, dumb, and blind when a Hathaway shows up.”

Perkins opened his mouth, then shut it. Finally, he gave a brief nod. “I’m with you.”

“Good.” Grandy swung into the saddle again. “Have someone ride into town and spread the word that there’s beef out here if anybody wants to come and get it.”

“Will do.” Perkins squinted up at him. “You’re sounding like the big boss man around here. I thought you was leaving.”

Grandy set his mouth in a grim line. “So did I. If Duncan had waited until tomorrow to stampede this herd, I
would have been long gone and out of this mess. As it is, I’m stuck in it.” He pressed his knees into the mare and she galloped across the flattened grass toward the heart of Primrose.

Zanna was still standing guard by the corral fence. Grandy reined the horse to a stop beside her and took the rifle from her hands. He balanced it across his saddle horn, then reached down to grasp her under one elbow.

“What …” She turned startled green eyes up to his.

“Jump up. I’ll give you a ride back to the house.” He pulled her up behind him and her arms stole around his middle. “What were you going to do with this rifle?”

“Shoot it and try to scare off the herd.”

He laughed. “You must think you cut one frightful figure, Zanna.”

“What’s that mean?”

“Did you think that herd would pay more attention to you than it would to a bunch of screaming cowboys on horseback?”

“I … no. I
had
to do something.”

“You’re a wonder, Zanna. A wonder.” He shook his head, thinking that at times she had more guts than sense. When it came to Primrose, she didn’t think too clearly.

“How many head did we lose?”

“Twenty-two, almost half of them calves.”

“What a shame. Remember the gunshots earlier?”

“Yes. And you said Duncan was around here before then?”

“Out in the barn. It was him. Him or his men.”

“No doubt about that.” He pulled the horse up in front of the house and helped Zanna slide off. “I’m going to give this sweet piece of horse meat a rubdown and something to eat and drink. Wait here for me.”

“You’ll be back?” she asked, her eyes wide with hope.

“Yes. I want to talk to you.” He held up one hand to beat down her rising spirits. “I’m not making any promises. I’m not even sure I’ll stick around past tomorrow.”

“But you
must
.”

He pinned her with an icy glare. “Let’s get one thing straight, lady. You’re not my boss anymore, so don’t bark orders at me unless you want to see my back sooner instead of later.”

She whipped the hanky from around her neck with one vicious jerk. “So now
you’re
going to threaten me?
You
listen to
me
, mister. If you’re going to hang around to hurl threats and shame me at every turn, then get off my land this minute. I’ve had enough of that to last me a lifetime!” Her chin angled up in the way that used to infuriate him, but now mostly amused him.

He sent the mare toward the stables, cursing Duncan and then himself for trying to tarnish Zanna’s shining spirit.

While he unsaddled the winded mare, gave her oats and fresh water, and brushed her down with strong, even strokes, Grandy tried to think past his own bruised feelings to find reasons why he should stay on Primrose. Zanna’s withholding the truth from him rankled, but he knew she was racked by guilt over it. Everyone made mistakes, he counseled himself. Don’t go blaming unless you’re blameless.

When he returned to the house, feeling sore and stiff from his wild ride, Zanna was sitting in a rocker on the porch, a serene figure in the afternoon sun. Dust still hovered in the air, a sign of the lingering violence. She cocked an eyebrow at him as he stepped onto the porch.

“Still here?”

“I said I wanted to talk with you.” He sat on the edge of the porch and braced his back against one of the supports. Bending one leg, he folded his hands on top of it and wished for a cigarette to calm his jangling nerves. The excitement of the stampede still ran in his blood, the thundering of hooves still echoed in his head. “What did Duncan say to you earlier?”

“What else? He said he was going to take Primrose away from me.”

“He can’t do that, Zanna.”

“He said he’d run me off … make me want to leave.”

“What else? Why were you so scared when you came looking for me?”

“He …” She lifted a hand to touch the locket at her throat. Her eyes seemed to look far, far away.

“He what?” Grandy pressed, his own gaze fixed on the locket which reminded him of all the terror this woman had faced.

“Tried to … grab me. I got away, but I was so afraid he’d …” She swallowed and blinked hard. “He said nobody was about. Not even you. He said nobody would hear me screaming … just like that Sunday two years ago. Just like then.” She shivered and clutched the locket tightly.

Grandy tore his gaze from her and looked in the general direction of Duncan’s spread, mentally projecting his hatred outward and hoping Duncan felt it in his gut.

“I’m staying for a few more days,” he said. “But I’m staying on
my
terms. No more being treated like a thief among kings and queens. Got that?”

“Understood,” she said, staring into the distance.

“I know I’ve got no real claim to Primrose, but I’d like to be treated with some respect around here.”

Her gaze moved slowly, steadily to his and her expression was one of sincerity—a solemn, solid sincerity.

“You have my respect, Grandville,” she said, speaking clearly and succinctly, as if she were swearing on the Bible. “You have had that for some time now.” Her lashes swept down to tickle her cheeks. “And I appreciate any time you can give me. Every day you stay here will be an answered prayer.”

He stood up and went inside, unable to deal with her heartfelt admissions.

Hathaway Hill, Duncan’s ranch, was so vastly different from Primrose that Grandy could hardly believe his eyes.

Beneath a wrought-iron arch that proclaimed the land to be owned by Duncan Duwayne Hathaway, Grandy’s horse stepped gingerly over the embedded logs that made a cattle guard.

“Easy, Countess,” Grandy murmured to his mount, sharpening his own senses now that he’d officially crossed into enemy territory.

The land around him was well-tended, gradually climbing toward a knoll where a house had been built. Hathaway Hill’s crowning glory was a long log cabin surrounded by pines and evergreens. The outbuildings looked newly built and freshly painted. Duncan’s wealth was evident everywhere; in the sturdy outer fences, the expensive iron fences around the corral areas, the two windmills, and the huge silo built from rock and brick.

Grandy released a low whistle that made Countess’s ears prick up. The place was impressive, but something was missing.

Ah, he thought with a nod. No warmth. No feeling of home like there was on Primrose. No clucking hens, crowing roosters, bursts of laughter, yapping dogs. Just an occasional mournful
moo
from a cow. Hathaway Hill was a working ranch, not a homeplace.