Ellie's Wolf (3 page)

Ellie looked down the dirt drive and saw a sprawling ranch house, a long, low bunkhouse, and collection of other buildings half a mile away. As they came closer, Ellie could see that any wealth the ranch might have had in the first decade of the twenty-first century was long gone. What would it have looked like before the terrorists destroyed the world? She thought the solid buildings would have been blindingly white against the golden rolling hills and the cloudless blue of the sky.

Today, the house might still be stately and elegant, but it was two hundred years old and in poor repair. Like the fence, the once white paint was mostly worn to weathered gray. The fancy gingerbread cutouts edging the roof were broken, the roof shingled in an uneven patchwork of contrasting colors. About a hundred yards to the south was the long, low bunkhouse and beyond that was a fenced corral. The only sign of people was the black line of a rifle poking out the highest window of the house and two more from the bunkhouse.

The wagon pulled to a stop in front of the steps of a wraparound porch and was welcomed by a half a dozen dogs running into the yard, barking and growling. A sharp word from the house quieted them. Rye signaled the other men to keep still and dismounted, keeping his hands clearly away from the pistol in his belt. “Good afternoon,” he called. “I’m Rye Thomas, here to pick up Mrs. Fosse.”

A man’s voice called from the house. “I made a deal for my sister with Bruce Gephart.”

“That’s right. Bruce is dead. I’m in charge now.”

Ellie couldn’t see who was speaking from the house, but the voice was clear enough that he must be close to an open window.

“We were expecting you earlier.”

“One of the other ladies isn’t feeling well,” Rye returned. “The smell of some of the goods in the wagon makes her sick, so we’ve been taking our time for her sake.”

“You got the money?”

“Yep,” said Rye.

Inside the wagon, Sara snorted. “Money is all Rye cares about,” she said to Ellie.

The voice from the house didn’t lose its suspicious tone. “What’ve you got in that covered wagon?”

Rye half turned. “Mrs. Overdahl? Why don’t you and Miss Nelson step down?”

“About time!” huffed Sara, nimbly climbing over the back of the wagon.

Ellie followed her more slowly. It was normal for people to be wary of strangers. In Odessa, the religious community she had grown up in, the walls had been guarded twenty-four hours a day. At the Overdahls’ mill north of Kearney, where she and her husband spent the first two years of their marriage, the fence was made of stone and the gate was solid. There were stories of outlaws posing as travelers being welcomed and then attacking and killing their hosts and stealing anything of value, including women. Ellie wasn’t surprised by the caution the ranchers showed, but she felt terribly exposed under the guns pointed at her.

There was a pause, and then a shrill whistle from the house signaled the gunmen to lower their weapons. In a moment the front door of the house opened, and a tall slender man stepped onto the veranda, his rifle over his shoulder. Two more men came out of the bunkhouse, carrying their rifles in the crooks of their arms. They were young and rawboned, with wild shoulder-length brown hair and cold, hard faces that looked alike.
Brothers
? Ellie wondered. The man on the veranda was a few years older than they were but had the same brown hair and cold face. Rye went to shake hands.

Sara muttered, “He looks exactly like a man who would sell his daughter to the devil.”

“He doesn’t look old enough to have a marriageable daughter. I doubt he’s older than twenty-five,” Ellie returned, straight-faced. “I think he’s rather handsome.”

Sara shuddered theatrically. “Sure, if you think demons are handsome.”

Ellie closed her mouth on her next comment. The man’s face was hard and sun-browned in spite of the shade cast by his wide-brimmed felt hat, but his features were regular. Now that he was a little closer she could see lines of weariness and worry on his face. It made him look considerably less cold.

At a wave from Rye, Paul and the other men dismounted. Only Jeff, in the wagon’s driver’s seat, stayed put.

The stranger said, “I’m Marcus Dirk.” He nodded to the two younger men standing their ground fifty yards away. “My brothers, Michael and Mordecai. Water trough is behind the bunkhouse. Boys, give them a hand watering their stock.” He turned back to Rye, and Ellie thought his next words were cool, but reluctant. “I suppose, having lost several hours, you want to push on right away. I’ll call my sister out for you. She’s been packed and ready to go for two days.”

Rye held up a hand. “If you don’t mind, I’d rather stay here the rest of today and get a start later in the morning tomorrow.” An ironic note entered his voice. “Miss Nelson isn’t a good traveler. A little extra rest would do her good. Don’t wanna show up at Ellsworth with a green-faced prize for the Bride Fights.”

Sara produced a faint moan. Mr. Dirk’s gaze shot to her. “The ladies can come inside. You and your men will have to stay out here. No offense intended.”

Rye said, “No offense taken. We would appreciate water, but we have our own food and gear. Where would you like us to park the wagon?”

Mr. Dirk waved to one of his brothers. “Mord can show you. I’ll take the ladies inside, and then we can talk business.”

Rye inclined his head and walked toward the bunkhouse. Mr. Dirk nodded at Ellie and Sara without looking directly at them. Sara did a good imitation of a woman on the verge of fainting. Ellie suppressed the urge to laugh and held her arm solicitously. Rye was keeping his promise to go slowly to give Taye enough time to get to Ellsworth before the bride fights began. Thank God.

Mr. Dirk scattered the dogs with a word. Ellie followed him up the steps and into the house, still holding a supportive hand under Sara’s elbow.

“Mel!” he called when they had cleared a wide entryway made bright by many windows and passed into a dim hall.

A figure in a cowboy hat and a gun belt moved in the near darkness at the end of the hall. “I’m here.”

“You hear all that? The traders won’t be leaving until tomorrow.”

The indistinct figure seemed to sag a bit. “Sounds good, Marc.”

Mr. Dirk waved at Sara and Ellie standing behind him. “You look after these ladies while I go have a talk with the traders.”

Mel shifted into the light, revealing a face that, like Marc’s, was cold. Silhouetted in the light and dark of the hallway, the figure had soft feminine curves. Ellie stared. From a distance, dressed in a bulky shirt, worn jeans, a beat-up hat and work boots, this woman could be taken for a man, but up close, the bust and hips were unmistakably female.

“You’re a girl!” Sara accused.

“Since the day I was born,” Mel agreed drily. “Follow me, gals.”

Ellie and Sara followed her to a kitchen whose windows let in the midday sun. Mel took off her hat, hung it on a peg, and turned to them. In the clear light of the kitchen, Ellie could see that Mel didn’t look nearly as cold or dangerous as she had appeared in the shadows of the hall. Her hair hung to her shoulders in a mix of dark blond and light brown streaks, her eyes mossy brown in a face tanned dark by hours in the sun. Her slanted smile showed off even white teeth.

“So…” Mel said, drawling out the word. “It’s us three for the Bride Fights, huh?”

Ellie nodded. “I’m Ellie Overdahl, and this is Sara Nelson.”

“Melissa Fosse.” Mel shoved a hank of sun-streaked hair behind her ear as she looked Sara up and down. “You’re kinda young to get married, aren’t you?”

“I’m sixteen. How old are you?”

“Twenty-three. You gals hungry? You want some bread and beef?”

“You bet. Rye never stopped for lunch.” Sara pulled out a chair at the table.

Ellie moved to the center of the kitchen. “Thank you. What can we do to help?”

Mel nodded at a pump fastened to the counter next to the sink. “There’s a pitcher in the cabinet above the sink. Pump up some water while I slice the bread and meat.”

“I can cut the bread,” Sara offered.

Ellie marveled at the convenience of having a pump right there in the kitchen. The water was good, too, clear and cold. The three women sat at the table, Sara and Ellie eating and Mel sipping a glass of water.

“This Rye,” Mel said. “What kind of man is he? I thought another man was the leader of the traders.”

“Bruce,” Sara said with relish around a mouthful of beef. “Rye killed him last night.”

Mel’s eyebrows climbed. “Murdered him?”

“It was self-defense,” Ellie said with a glance at Sara. “Bruce was going to…Well, he…”

“He was an ass,” the teenager said.

Ellie cleared her throat. “He threw a knife at Mr. Thomas, and Mr. Thomas shot him.”

Sara waved her sandwich at Ellie. “Quit being so la-di-da. Call him Rye.” She turned to Mel. “Why is your brother selling you?”

Ellie drew a pained breath at Sara’s bold manners, but Mel answered calmly. “It was my idea.”

Sara dropped her sandwich. “Your idea?”

Mel nodded and took a sip of her water. “We need the money. My mom…” She looked away for a moment and cleared her throat. “When I was a kid, the ranch did well. The grass was good, and the cows dropped lots of calves. But in the last ten years, it’s been dry, and we’ve lost a lot of stock to rustlers.”

Ellie hesitated to ask personal questions, but Mel seemed open. “Isn’t there a neighbor who could help out? Maybe someone you could marry who would be able to contribute to his in-laws’ ranch?”

Mel set her glass down on the table very carefully. “Already tried that. Married Rob Fosse from the Leaning F south of here.”

“Then how could you be a prize for a Bride Fight?” Sara burst out. “What about your husband?”

“He’s dead.” Mel laid a hand on the butt of the pistol strapped to her thigh. “Shot him myself.”

A gasp escaped Ellie before she could catch it. Sara stared at Mel with popping eyes. “You shot your husband?” the teenager squeaked.

“He deserved it.” Mel sounded bored. “The rustlers that are stealing our stock? He and his brothers were the kingpins of that gang.”

Ellie tried to find the right words to say and failed. “Oh,” she said lamely.

“It’s a shame.” Mel traced a finger through the condensation on the side of her glass. “Rob was a fine looking man.” Her laugh was mirthless. “I’d stay here and marry someone else if the spineless fools weren’t afraid of me.”

Sara made a face of exaggerated surprise. “They’re afraid of you? Why in the world would they be afraid of you?”

Mel snapped a finger against the tip of Sara’s nose. “Don‘t be sassy, miss. Why are you going to be a prize?”

Sara fired up. “Because my dad died, and my mother’s stepbrother sold me.”

Mel nodded and cut Sara off by turning to Ellie with a raised brow.

“My husband died in an accident at the mill he managed,” Ellie said quietly. “His employer asked me repeatedly to marry him, but I refused. Yesterday morning the traders showed up and…He sold me.”

The memory of it rose up and slapped Ellie in the face, and for a moment, she forgot to breathe.

She could still feel the sting of dish soap in the dry places on her hands. She’d been washing the breakfast dishes when Mr. Moore came into the kitchen. Connor still sat in his high chair at the table, with the younger Moore boy, Tommy, entertaining him with a few painted wooden blocks.

“Well, Mrs. Ellie,” Moore said. The coaxing note she had grown to dread wasn’t in his voice. “It’s time for us to say good-bye. Matthew has packed a few of your clothes, and Bruce Gephart has loaded them into his wagon.”

Ellie’s first thought was that Taye had come for her at last. The unfamiliar name of Bruce Gephart killed her burst of wild excitement. “What?” she said in confusion. “Who?”

Mr. Moore laid his hand on her arm, pulling her away from the sink full of dishes. “Come along, the women traders are in a hurry.”

Women traders? Ellie could not get enough air. Her lungs tried to turn themselves inside out as she gasped. No matter how she twisted in Mr. Moore’s grip she couldn’t get free. He ignored her feeble attempts at escape and towed her outside where two wagons and half a dozen men waited. The leader of these men, an unshaven brute whose big belly strained his shirt buttons, laughed.

“She’s a feisty one, Moore. The men in Ellsworth oughta like her.”

Ellie’s heart stopped when she heard Connor screaming for her from the kitchen and started up again with a jolt. “Connor!” she shrieked.

“I’ll take care of him,” Moore promised. “Here, take her.”

“Connor!” she screamed again, managing to twist free at last and lunge up the steps that led to the house.

Mr. Moore caught her again, hands bruising her arms, and gave her a rough shake. “You had your chance to stay here. Maybe whoever wins you will be willing to raise another man’s brat. If so, you can send word when you’re settled. If I don’t hear in three months, I’ll sell the little monster if I can find anyone willing to take him.”

Connor was still shrieking. He was not a little monster! He was her son, hers and Neal’s. Hatred-fueled rage welled up in her, a visceral maternal reaction to her son’s cries. She’d never felt such fury. It hooked her fingers into claws she raked down Mr. Moore’s face. “Don’t you dare touch Connor,” she snarled through her clenched teeth.

“Bitch!” he howled at her, all vestiges of the kindly employer and would-be lover gone.

She’d been raised to respect her elders and love her enemies, but she hated Moore with a passion so alien to her she felt drunk with it. She shook the memory off and saw Mel staring at her.

“She gets like that sometimes,” Sara was saying to Mel. “When she thinks about her little boy, she kind of goes away.”

A blush rolled up Ellie’s neck. “Sorry.”

Mel waved a hand. “No problem. You have a little boy?”

“Connor.” Ellie had to swallow hard. “He’s almost three.”

When she fell silent, Sara put in, “That bastard who sold her kept her son.”

“Well, day-yum,” said Mel slowly. “A man like that don’t deserve to breathe.”

Ellie took a deep steadying breath. “I’ve sent a message to my cousin up north. He’ll get everything sorted out.”