Mary Connealy (88 page)

“I didn’t understand your pa, Wade. He rode you hard, held you up for a fool, and he was too ready with the back of his hand. I have my own beliefs when it comes to the Almighty, and I can see that there’s been a change in you. But I’ve lived long enough to be sure God ain’t gonna send lightning bolts to run off a bad bunch’a cowhands. Without your pa here to rule the roost, we’re all looking to you. But no one’s gonna hand you the reins. You’re gonna have to take ’em. And the best way would be to run off the no-accounts and the malcontents.”

“Which would leave us about fifteen men short for spring roundup.” Wade quirked a smile.

“Not really.” Chester looked around. “If all of ’em are worthless, we’re shorthanded anyway.”

“I’ll give you that. I’ll decide soon who stays and who goes, and I’ll listen to your opinions when I decide.”

“I already know who I’d pick. I just hope you figure it out before it’s too late.” Chester reined his horse around and took off after the cowhands.

Wade rode up beside Sid, who was teamed with one of the men who’d been lazing in the barn this morning. Paddy, that was his name. An Irishman for sure with that name, but nothing about him looked Irish. He was just another Montana cowboy.

“Paddy, mind ridin’ ahead? Sid and I need to make some plans.”

Paddy looked as if he was planning to refuse. Something about his expression sent a chill up Wade’s spine. It wasn’t anger but rather vicious amusement laced with a hunger to hurt. Wade decided then and there he’d watch his back whenever Paddy was around. And if Paddy was friends with Sid, then Wade would keep an eye on Sid, too.

Especially after Wade gave him the bad news. “I’m naming Chester foreman, Sid. He knows the way things work on the Sawyer range.”

Sid’s eyes flashed fire. For a second Wade wondered if Sid would throw a fist. He controlled his rage. “I’ve been running the Sawyer range to suit your pa.”

“You’re nearly a month late with the roundup, Sid. That doesn’t suit my father. I’ll be interested to see if he knows when I get in tonight. Maybe where you’re from the winter doesn’t let loose of the land until now, but that just proves you don’t know how we work here on the M Bar S. Stay on as a cowhand if you like. But if you have any influence on the men, you’d better tell ’em to pick up the pace, because I’ll decide who stays and who goes by week’s end.”

Sid’s brow arched. “You want me to push the men after you took away my job as boss?”

“I do. Because one of the men who may stay or go is you. And I can make decisions before week’s end if I need to. I’m watching close.” Wade turned away from Sid and picked out an inept pair of cowhands who had paired up with each other. Had they deliberately defied him, or were they just that stupid?

Wade rode over to find out, and out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Sid and Paddy riding together, talking up a storm.

A
bby caught herself watching out the window for Wade to come in.

Not Wade really, all of them. It was her job.

Gertie had spent the morning working endlessly in the kitchen. Along with a huge baking of bread, she’d made pan after pan of apple cobbler and a mountain of doughnuts. When a bawling, shoving herd of cattle appeared out of a cloud of dust a short distance from the ranch yard, Gertie carried the warm sugary doughnuts out to the men, and Abby hurried along behind her with two huge pots of ink black coffee.

The milling cattle, their horns long and sharp, their coats brown and white and black and red, all colors, all sizes, were shaggy and mean. Baby calves kicking up their heels in the lush grass bawled. Their mothers answered with low crooning moos as their pace sped up to the smell of water.

Abby realized that Mort Sawyer had built his own herd, but longhorns instead of buffalo. But there were no fences. How did the man keep them from heading south when the weather turned cold? Shaking her head, she searched the crowd for Wade.

He emerged from the chaos and came riding toward them.

He called over his shoulder, “Coffee, men.”

All the riders began trotting their horses toward Gertie and Abby. Gertie reached a waist-high flat rock near the entrance to the canyon, set her huge tray of doughnuts on top, and pulled off the cloth towel. Abby set one tin coffeepot on the ground and the other one beside the doughnuts.

Wade swung down and fished a tin coffee cup out of his saddlebag. His eyes met Abby’s, but he didn’t come toward her. Instead he dropped back and waved all the men in first. They ground-hitched their horses and dove into the food.

“Why do the cattle stay around, Gertie?” Abby asked. “And why do the horses stand without being held?”

Gertie smiled. “We’ll talk ranching once this mob is fed. Or maybe you oughta ask Mort. That man, grouchy as he is, knows more about running a spread this size than any man around these parts. Talking might get him to let up on his self-pity.” Gertie focused on the men.

One grunted, “Thanks,” and moved toward Abby.

She didn’t like the intent shine in his eyes and moved close to Gertie. A quick exchanged glance between the women was all it took to keep Gertie from telling Abby to move over.

The other men took their turn speaking to her, eager to say, “Thanks for the coffee,” and a few words more. She felt them all staring at her.

Wade came around the back of the flat rock and stood by her side so that he and Gertie had her surrounded.

“You want coffee?” She did her best not to glare at him. Just another man who prized her fair skin and pale hair.

“In a minute. I’ll wait.” Wade said no more, but Abby, despite being annoyed at Wade’s nearness, realized she felt safe with Gertie on one side and Wade on the other. How could she think she’d be safe in the white man’s world? Of course, she had turned out
not
to be safe in her Flathead people’s world, too, now, hadn’t she?

When Wade finally got his turn, he drank his coffee while Gertie asked questions about the progress of the roundup.

“We’ll have lunch in the bunkhouse. You don’t need to feed this mob.” He watched his men ride back to the next herd as he told Gertie about the morning. He decided to wait until the men were out of sight to make sure none of them bothered Abby.

“I’ve been talking to Cookie. He’s got a pot of stew going, but I’ve baked a day’s worth of bread this morning, so I’m taking that and enough apple cobbler to give every man a bite. While roundup is going on, we’ll keep your bellies full.”

“Sounds great, Gertie. Thanks.”

Looking at Abby, Gertie said, “I need to hustle back to the house. Do you mind waiting until the men are done then bringing along the tray and coffeepots?”

Abby nodded.

Gertie did hustle. In fact, Abby didn’t think she’d ever seen the older woman move so fast.

Realizing that while she’d stared after Gertie, the cowhands had swung up on horseback and headed out, she stood alone with Wade. She began collecting the pots as Wade went to his chestnut, the last animal still standing idle.

Wade tossed the reins over the gelding’s head. He grabbed the pommel then paused. “If…uh…the men…ever bother you, Abby, you should let me know. I…I don’t like the looks of some of them, and…well…I …”

Abby looked away from the tray she reached for. “What is it?”

“I suppose I made ’em mad. Some of ’em at least.”

“What did you do?” Abby had a flicker of memory when she spoke the scolding words. She thought maybe her white mother had taken that exact tone with her long ago.

Wade dropped the reins again and stepped close. “I changed foremen. I didn’t like the looks of the one we had. And a lot of the cowhands are new since Pa got hurt. The foreman looked mad enough to take my head off when I told him. But he’s not runnin’ the ranch to suit me nor my pa. And I teamed up my better cowhands with the ones who weren’t up to snuff. I suppose I stepped on some pride with that. But it was either that or send ’em down the trail to hunt work somewhere else. Anyway, they might be mad, maybe fightin’ mad, and I want you to stay well away from them.”

“It suits me to stay far away from all of you.” Abby tossed her braid over her shoulder. “I will gladly avoid your men.”

“Well, okay then, good. I’ll be going.” Wade went back to his horse.

Abby turned away to gather the rest of her things. She heard the leather creak as Wade swung up. She wasn’t quite able to stop herself from sneaking a look at him—lean and strong and kind—mounting his horse.

As he landed on the saddle, the horse went berserk. Exploding in noise and motion, it launched itself straight up, neighing and fighting the bit. The chestnut’s head jerked back. Its head would have smashed Wade’s face if Wade wasn’t off balance and leaning to the side.

Stiff-legged, the chestnut landed hard. Abby heard Wade’s teeth click together. Rearing and squealing, the normally gentle gelding rose up and up. It looked certain to go over backward.

Wade threw his weight forward and the horse landed on all fours. Wheeling, it lashed its heels high in the air, and the iron-shod hooves whizzed past Abby’s face.

“Abby, look out!” Wade’s voice roared over the shrill whistles of the maddened animal.

She threw her body backward, trapping herself against the rock.

Wade fought for control.

The horse whirled again then lunged forward. Its front hooves raked at her.

Throwing herself sideways, Abby watched as the horse missed her by inches. As she landed, she saw an arrow protruding from the sleeve of her dress, but it didn’t hurt. It must have missed her arm. Without a split second to think under the hooves of the maddened horse, Abby regained her feet then timed her leap to the horse’s jumps. Swift as a pouncing cougar, Abby grabbed the horse’s bridle.

The horse lifted her off her feet. Her weight brought the horse back to the ground as a second arrow whipped by so close that feathers attached to it swiped her face.

With the horse still, Wade leapt from the saddle. “What are you doing?” He raced to the horse’s head.

“Holding your horse.” Abby gasped from exertion, pulling the horse around so its big body protected them from the arrows.

“You could”—Wade’s chest heaved—“have been killed.”

Abby seriously doubted it. She caught the fabric covering Wade’s shoulder and dragged him out of the line of fire. “What happened to him?”

Wade’s eyes flashed in temper, seemingly directed at Abby. But at her question, he turned to the horse. It stood trembling, its eyes wide with fear or maybe…“He’s in pain.”

Abby shoved the reins into Wade’s hand and went to the horse’s side, keeping her head low, still mindful of those deadly arrows.

“Let me do that.”

“Hang on to him.” Abby unfastened the cinch. An odd contraption. But there had been a saddle or two in their village. She knew how one worked.

The horse skittered sideways, and Wade dug in his heels. “What’s wrong, boy? What’s hurting?”

The quiet murmur of Wade’s voice made Abby realize she was skittish, too. Those hooves had barely missed her. A quick look around revealed no one who might have sent an arrow her way. A glance at it protruding from her shoulder revealed markings similar to those of her people. Had someone from the Flathead village tried to kill her? What lies and poison had Wild Eagle’s mother spread?

She lifted the saddle away then swept a blanket aside to find a small, jagged rock and two heavy burrs tucked under the blanket. “Look.” Scooping up the painful objects, Abby patted the chestnut’s shoulder as she came to stand beside Wade.

Wade stared for two seconds then looked up at her. “There’s no way I was riding all morning with those things under my saddle.”

Nodding, Abby said, “Someone shoved them in while you were having coffee.”

“And no one was around here except the cowhands.”

“How many of them did you say had dented pride?”

With narrow eyes, Wade looked in the direction his men had ridden. “Most of ’em.”

Abby couldn’t quite control her sarcasm. “You’ve had a full day, then.”

“What is that?” Wade’s eyes narrowed on her arm. Quickly, his expression grim, he reached for the arrow. “You’ve been shot.” He touched the arrow. Abby heard his sigh of relief as he realized it hadn’t embedded in her skin. “When did this happen?”

“While the horse was going wild.”

Wade pulled the arrow gently loose from her dress.

Abby glared at the weapon. “If I’d had my doeskin dress, that arrow wouldn’t have even torn it. Why do you whites wear these …” What white word described it? “Weak dresses?” She went back to soothing the horse.

“Abby, I’d like to remind you that you’re just as white as I am. Whiter actually, considering the blond hair.”

Furious to be reminded, she ignored him to tend to the horse.

“Where did the arrow come from?”

Abby tilted her head in the direction the cowhands had gone. “It’s got the markings of a Salish arrow, but none of my people sent an arrow my way.”

“How do you know?”

“It’s not their way to shoot at a woman from cover. That is the coward’s way, the white man’s way.”

Wade stared at the rocky outcropping that the cowhands had rounded. “It wouldn’t be very hard to hide in those rocks. My cowpokes could ride right past a bushwhacker and never see a thing.”

Abby looked at him. “Let’s go see if the back-shooting coyote has run away.”

“You can be sure he has. But he might have left some sign.”

Wade fastened the horse’s saddle again; the horse now stood calm and steady. Wade stroked the horse’s neck, and Abby was struck by his kindness. So different from Wild Eagle.

Thinking of Wild Eagle made her remember something else. “In the madness of the massacre of my village, I remember the men getting off their horses…to torch the tepees and club a few of the wounded.” Abby glared at the arrow. “Whoever shot that arrow at me just now might have stolen it from my village. He might be the same one who killed my family.”

Wade looked as grim as death. “Could be. If that’s right, he may still be after you.”

“Or you. Or both of us. We both were there when I pulled off that man’s mask.”