Journey of the Heart (7 page)

“And what did ye do this mornin’, Cait?” Michael asked as they sat down to their midday meal.

“I watched our new wrangler bungle his way through a training session, Da.”

Michael lifted his eyebrows and looked over at Elizabeth, who gave a little shrug as though to say: “I don’t know what is going on here, either.”

“Sure and every man has a bad day with his horses, Cait. Gabe Hart’s no bungler.”

“Well, be that as it may, I don’t want him working with my horse. I told him I would take over.”

Michael picked up his coffee mug and cradling it in his hands was quiet for a moment.

“Em, ye did, did ye?”

“I didn’t think you’d mind, Da. After all, Heathcliff is mine.”

“Nevertheless, Cait,” said Elizabeth, “it was your father who hired Gabe and your father who asked him to work Sky in his spare time. You put Gabe in a very awkward position.”

Cait blushed. “I’m sorry, Da,” she said apologetically. “But I do want to train Heathcliff myself,” she added stubbornly. “So would you tell Mr. Hart?”

“I can’t, Cait,” said her father. “ ‘Twould not be fair to the horse or to Gabe. He’s put in a month’s hard work and the horse is just beginning to respond to him.”

“Da, I know Heathcliff will remember me. I had him almost halter-broke, remember?”

“Caitlin,” interrupted Elizabeth, who could feel the tension building between Michael and his daughter. “Your father has a good reason for giving the horse to Gabe, We didn’t tell you yesterday on your first day home, but Sky was injured this spring.”

“He’s gone lame?” Cait exclaimed.

“No,” Elizabeth continued. “He was attacked by a mountain lion and lucky to survive. If it hadn’t been for Finn bringing him in, we would have lost him.”

“If he isn’t lame and he isn’t dead, then what is wrong with him?”

“He’s recovered physically, as far as we can tell, though he was left with a terrible-looking scar.”

“Which would be far worse, Cait, had your mother not been so good with her needle and thread.”

“He won’t let anyone or anything near his back, Cait,” Elizabeth explained, “We don’t know if he’ll ever be ridden. Your father had no time to work with him, so he gave him to Gabe. Gabe had been making progress and I don’t think we should interrupt his training and neither does your father.”

“Thank you,
a ghra,”
said Michael, putting his hand over his wife’s. “I couldn’t bear tellin’ ye, Cait.”

“I see,” said his daughter quietly. “And what happens if he can’t ever be ridden?”

“Well, I don’t know…he’s a gelding, ye know, and I can’t use him for breeding.”

“And we can’t afford a useless animal, can we, Da? I’ve heard you say that often enough.”

Michael only looked at her helplessly, his heart resonating to the pain in her voice.

“Then I guess I should wish Mr. Hart luck, shouldn’t I? I suppose,” she added in a tight voice, “that I am allowed to feed and groom him and let him get to know me again?”

“Of course, Cait,” said her father, “so long as ye don’t get in the way of Gabe’s training.”

“Where is he now?”

“Likely in the near pasture.”

“I think I’ll walk out there to see him. Excuse me, Ma? Da?”

After she left, Michael looked over at his wife and said: “That is one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do, Elizabeth.”

“I know, Michael. You did it well. And you are right, you know.”

“I know. It wouldn’t be fair to the horse or the man. But it doesn’t make me feel any better, knowing I’m right.”

* * * *

It was not a long walk to the pasture, but Cait was slowed down by her tears and her skirts and shoes. She had dressed without thinking this morning and now realized that her clothes, which would have been casual in Philadelphia, were completely inappropriate for the ranch.

I’ve been away too long, she thought as she watched her skirt accumulate a layer of red dust. The dress was a light blue cotton and the red dust was stubborn, staining fabric even after hard scrubbing. She’d better dig out her leather riding skirt soon, she realized.

There were a few mares in the pasture and way over in the far corner, a black horse. Her horse.

She whistled the special whistle she’d summoned him with when he was a colt. He only lifted his head and looked around curiously.

She could see a sickle-shaped shadow along his shoulder, which she assumed was the scar. He’d been such a special colt: intelligent, spirited, and full of affection. She’d been sure he’d grow up into something special. And she’d been dreaming so long of riding him and then showing him off to Henry.

She heard footsteps behind her and assuming it was her father, said, with a little sob, “He was such a beauty, Da.”

Gabe cleared his throat and said, “He still is, Miss Burke.”

Caitlin rubbed the tears off her face quickly and then turned.

“Your father told you about the accident, then? You can’t see much from here,” said Gabe. “It’s a bad scar, but he’s still a fine-looking animal,” he added reassuringly.

“I owe you an apology, Mr. Hart,” Cait said stiffly. “My father explained that since you’ve won Heathcliff’s trust, it is best you continue training him. Although, if it is all right with you, I am to take over some of his grooming.”

Gabe was relieved. He’d always had a feel for people as well as horses and he was happy to be right about Michael Burke. His employer had done the right thing, not that Miss Caitlin Burke seemed very happy about it.

“Do you think you can break him, Mr. Hart?” Caitlin tried to keep her voice cool and steady but Gabe could hear the little tremble.

“I sure hope so, Miss Burke. Would you like to see him closer?”

Cait expected that Gabe would go in after the black, but he only gave a distinctive high whistle. The horse turned his head and when Gabe whistled again, came trotting over.

“Hi, there, Sky, want some apple?” said Gabe, holding one out in his open palm. When the horse had lipped it off, he slipped the halter on him easily.

Caitlin didn’t know what hurt her the most: the fact that her colt, who had refused her whistle came so easily to Hart, or the ugly scar running down his neck and shoulder.

She climbed through the fence and stood in front of the horse.

“Here, here’s another piece of apple, Miss Burke.”

Cait wanted to throw it in Hart’s face. As though she needed to bribe her own horse to get him to know her again. She whispered softly to him and the black stood quietly. Reaching slowly up to hold the halter, Cait brought his face to hers and breathed a few breaths into his nostrils.

“I’ve seen your father do that with Finn. He says it’s a way of communicating with a horse,” said Gabe with a smile.

“May I hold him, Mr. Hart?”

Gabe handed her the halter rope and Cait cupped the black’s muzzle, crooning sweet nonsense syllables to him.

She was as good with a horse as her father, Gabe had to admit as he watched her. She was so intent on getting the black to know her and trust her again that she was unaware of his attention. He looked her over from head to foot and aside from the fancy dress and shoes, liked what he saw. She had her hair pulled back and fastened with a beaded leather clasp, but because her hair was thick and curly, a cloud of dark brown framed her face. Her eyes were gray, flecked with green and her eyelashes were almost as long as Sky’s, he thought with a smile. She was small, like her mother, but she filled out the light blue dress in a very satisfying way. He was lost in his admiration of her figure and was wondering what it would be like to put his hands around her trim waist when all of a sudden he realized that she’d moved closer to the horse’s side and was reaching up to touch the scar.

Sky jerked the rope out of her hand and cantered off, leaving Cait looking down at her palm, which had been scraped raw.

“Damn,” muttered Gabe. “It will take me all afternoon to undo that little move.”

Cait was furious with herself. She’d rushed the horse, and on her first day back. She knew better than that. But it was as though the scar had drawn her hand to it. She’d wanted to smooth it over, remove the remembered pain, make it go away. And because she knew she was in the wrong, she was even angrier with Gabe Hart. He needn’t curse at her like that.

Her face was flushed with embarrassment and anger as she turned to face him. “I don’t appreciate being talked to like that, Mr. Hart.”

“And I don’t like you spooking my horse.”

“Heathcliff is my horse. You’ll do well to remember that.”

“Heathcliff! Where in hell did you get a name like that? His name is Night Sky.” Gabe was fed up with Miss Caitlin Burke, desirable curves or not.

Cait’s face got even redder. “He is named after the hero in one of the great English novels. Someone I doubt
you’ve
never heard of, Mr. Hart. The man Emily Bronte created had a wild, unbreakable spirit, just like my colt.”

“His wild, unbreakable spirit will do him little good on this ranch, Miss Burke. If he is not gentled in a few months, he’ll be destroyed.”

Now why had he said such a cruel thing? wondered Gabe as he stalked off. He wouldn’t let Michael Burke shoot the horse, no matter what happened. He’d grown to love Sky too much for that very spirit he had just mocked. Something called to him in that horse. It was the inner struggle that he sensed every time he worked with Sky. It was a struggle Gabe understood: the fear of being hurt warred with the desire to trust; the determination to remain free warred with the longing to give his devotion. He’d pay for the horse’s keep out of his wages, before he’d let him be put down.

“Señor Chavez is here to see you, Señor Mackie,” said the housekeeper.

“Thank you, Maria. I’ll see him in the library.” Mackie pushed back his chair and looked over at his wife. “You’ll excuse me, Helen?”

“Of course, Nelson.” Helen Mackie was a pale, washed-out woman who answered in the affirmative to anything Mackie asked her, having been bullied into submission over the ten years of their marriage.

Mackie was seated in front of the fire when Chavez appeared in the doorway.

“Come in, Chavez. Would you like a drink?”

The man nodded and sitting opposite Mackie, reached out his hand for the shot glass of whiskey. He drained it in one gulp.

“Another?”

“
Gracias, señor
.”

Chavez
sounded
Mexican, thought Mackie, gazing at the puzzle that was his hired gun. But he certainly didn’t look it, with his light brown hair and green eyes. Wolfs eyes, thought Mackie.

“So, you visited the Simpsons?”

“Yes,” said Chavez, swirling the whiskey around in his glass.

“And?” Mackie demanded impatiently.

“They are very eager to sell, Señor Mackie.”

Mackie laughed and poured himself another drink. “Here’s to another three hundred acres. You’re a good man, Chavez.”

A good man was exactly what he was not, Juan Chavez thought ironically as he emptied his glass. A good man wouldn’t be suggesting to a small rancher like Simpson that there had been so little rain,
señor
, and things were so dry that it would not be surprising if, one day, his ranch burned down? It would be better to take Señor Mackie’s offer,
si
…? “
Si
,”
said Simpson.

A good man wouldn’t be working for Nelson Mackie.

Mackie pulled out a map of the valley. He had traced his own property lines in blue and the other ranchers in red. More and more lines were turning purple, however, as Mackie took over. There were still a few pieces outlined in red on the edges of Mackie’s property. And there was one large area that pushed itself into the blue boundaries. That was Michael Burke’s spread.

Mackie was tapping his pen right in the middle of Burke’s property. “You can spend some of your time with the likes of the Garcias, but Burke’s is the one I want to get.”

“And he won’t sell?”

“I’ve made him two offers, damned good ones. But he just smiles and gives me that Irish blarney of his. It’s bad enough that he owns such a big piece of the valley. But that he’s running sheep on it and ruining good grazing land! And the rest of the men listen to him, damn it. It’s why I can’t get some of them out. So, I’ll have to become more, uh, persuasive,” said Mackie. “Or rather, you will.”

Chavez gave him a bland look. “Just how persuasive?”

“To start with, you will be the one making my last offer. Politely, of course, but let him know it is the last time he’ll have a chance to get out with any profit.”

“Si,
Señor Mackie. I’ll go tomorrow.”

* * * *

Juan Chavez walked slowly back to the bunkhouse. A few of the men were playing poker and invited him to join them, but he said no and pouring himself a cup of coffee walked out and sat on the bench outside, leaning his head against the bunkhouse wall.

He watched the stars come out and silently named the constellations. When he sat like this for a few minutes each evening, he felt free and at peace. He smiled as he remembered when he started stealing this time for himself. He was ten or eleven and had been at the Romero hacienda for three years. The first years of his captivity had been a blur. He’d understood nothing yet was beaten when he didn’t obey old Tomas’s orders. He’d learned Spanish quickly; he’d had to in order to stop the beatings. Or most of them. One night, after all the fires were banked, he’d snuck out and sat down for the first time that day. When he lifted his head, there they were winking down at him. The same stars his father had named for him. No matter where he was, the same familiar patterns would appear. He got back a little of himself that night. He was Jonathan Rush. From Boston. He didn’t remember much more than that and the names of the star patterns and his father’s voice. From then on, wherever he was, whomever he was working for, he would take those few minutes of freedom.

* * * *

In the morning he was up and out early. He went alone. He preferred being alone and he worked better that way. He didn’t need any riders to back him up. He was very good at conveying Mackie’s threats all by himself.