When the Splendor Falls (86 page)

The daily routine of most of the
rancho
had been involved with the shearing, dipping, and docking of the sheep. And soon, once the sheep had been returned to their summer pastures high on the forested mountain slopes, the longhorns grazing the grasslands would be rounded up, the calves born of the winter months branded, then the herd sent back to the range to fatten up during the long summer months. Again in early fall there would be another roundup, and the cattle to be sold at market would be cut out and herded across rugged desert and prairie. As in the past, the inferior cows would be slaughtered for hide and tallow. But already, Nathaniel’s herd was showing an improvement in its beef, the prized Scottish Durham bulls he’d crossbred with Spanish longhorns producing a sturdier beef cow that could withstand the hardships of the trail.

Leigh shaded her eyes, for even beneath the rim of her hat, the sun at noonday was blindingly bright. Despite that, Leigh raised her face to feel its warmth, the luminous blue sky directly overhead cloudless, but in the distance, jaundice-tinted thunderheads were climbing high over the mountains and promising an afternoon shower.

“Hey! Leigh!” Gil called out, waving to them from his position at the end of the trough, a long leather apron tied around his waist, his hooked pole held ready as he eyed any stubborn, shorn heads that refused to dunk beneath the strong-smelling mixture. And as an eye-watering whiff was carried to them on the breeze, Leigh found she really couldn’t blame the poor creatures for trying to keep their heads up.

“Auntie Leigh! Auntie Leigh! Wanna go closer!” Steward cried, tugging harder on her hand.

“You don’t want to fall in, do you?” she asked, refusing to be pulled closer. “Gil might have to pull you out with that big hook.”

Steward stared at his tall cousin in amazement, and at that precise moment, the big hook dipped down as if in warning, followed by a loud baaing coming from the trough.

“I wanna sheep. Can I? Can I? Uncle Guy has hounds,” Steward demanded, quick with another want.

“That is slightly different.”

“Pugh! Don’t smell different,” Steward said, thinking that would make it acceptable.

Leigh sighed, for it was very difficult at times to convince Steward that he wasn’t going to receive his little heart’s every desire whenever he made a wish—which was frequently.

“I’ll take you to see the lamb Gil and I found in the mountains. I will even let you pet it, if you like,” Leigh said cajolingly, hoping to avoid the ear-splitting cries and stamping feet of one of his tantrums.

“Hey! Where you goin’?” Gil called out, nearly losing his balance on the side of the trough as he leaned forward too far, his grinning face, except for the bluish-yellow bruise high on his cheekbone, showing little sign of the mishap—the truth of which was still their secret. For which her silence was shown in almost embarrassingly fond glances whenever she caught Gil’s eye, which had caused Neil to raise a curious eyebrow more than once as he glanced between them.

“Over to the pens. I’m going to show Steward our lamb,” Leigh told him, unable not to smile when he made a comical face and mockingly wiped his forehead of nervous perspiration, his knees shaking, for he could laugh about it now—now that they were safely returned to Royal Rivers. But despite his clowning, Leigh suspected Gil would never make the same mistake again.

Leigh waved to Solange, who was perched precariously on the top rail of the fence overlooking the sheds. To those unaccustomed to Solange’s eccentricities, she must have appeared quite a bizarre figure sitting there on the fence rail in a very unladylike manner. And her choice of dress did little to dispel such an impression. Her gray skirt was designed to show her ruffled underpetticoat of Solferino cashmere. Worn with a Garibaldi blouse of the same bright purplish-red color, the paisley shawl she’d worn against the morning chill now tied around her waist gypsy fashion, the drooping white ostrich feather in her turban hat shielding her eyes from the glare, she was perfectly at ease with her small feet, in a pair of red Moroccan slippers she’d bought in Tangier, dangling high above the ground. Her stub of charcoal moved with quick precision across the sheets of paper she held propped on a drawing board across her knees as she caught the movements of the sheep in the pen, and of the dipping trough just beyond. And, Leigh guessed, Michael Sebastian, had he been privileged to view Solange’s sketch pad, might have been surprised to find his own visage portrayed quite realistically upon those pages.

She had to admit she was surprised he was still here, and that he had proven a hard worker. He was standing slightly apart now, watching the sheep tumbling into the trough, his hook sending the shyest into the depths without further delay. Leigh had been uneasily reminded of his presence all week, after catching him skulking around the stables one afternoon when he should have been in the sheds loading bales of wool. Coming upon him unannounced, he’d turned in surprise, looking uncomfortably guilty at having been caught. But his explanation had come glibly enough, mentioning something about looking for more rope, before he’d walked away. When Leigh had entered the stables, she’d been startled to find Neil inside, his broad back to the door as he’d examined Thunder Dancer’s foreleg, and unaware that Michael Sebastian had been just outside.

Leigh sought Neil’s figure now, easily finding him as he worked in one of the sheds, shearing like any hired hand doing backbreaking labor for a day’s wages. He still wore his Comanche braid, which was, Leigh suspected, far more practical than some of the other workers’ untrimmed hair which hung loosely about their faces, sticky strands clinging to their sweat-streaked cheeks. The Mexicans, however, wore red bandannas around their heads, and were now dressed in plain overalls. When they’d arrived at the beginning of the week they’d been dressed as elegantly as the finest
caballeros
in town, with short black jackets fancily embroidered with colorful silks, trousers trimmed in gold tinsel, richly figured sashes tied tight around their waists, high-heeled boots with jingling spurs, and wide-brimmed
sombreros
. They were saving their finery for the festivities following the shearing on Saturday night when there would be a barbecue and fiesta with singing and dancing.

Slowing her steps slightly, Leigh continued to watch Neil as she, Noelle and Steward hanging on to her hands, crossed the yard, for this was one of the few times she’d seen him in the last week. Ever since the shearing had begun, he’d worked like a demon possessed. He fell into bed—the daybed—in their room each night, too exhausted to do more than mutter a perfunctory “’night” to her, before turning his broad back to the room—and her. And each morning, he was gone before she awakened, stealing away like a thief in the night, Leigh thought, for she was a light sleeper. And he took his lunch with the rest of the shearers, and dinner was not an occasion for private conversation.

As she watched him now, he finished clipping the sheep he held caught between his long, powerful legs, releasing the sad-looking creature shorn of his proud fleece and patting the bare rump to send him along the makeshift passageway to a pen, and then through another passageway to the trough waiting at the end. The mound of wool behind him was piled high, and with a nod to the young man quickly bundling it up into bales, he walked toward the pump, where a bucket of cooling water and a ladle awaited the thirsty. But as Leigh watched, Neil pulled the linen shirt he’d been wearing over his head, then bending down and pumping the handle vigorously, allowed the cooling waters to stream over his head, shoulders, and bared chest.

Standing up, he shook his head free of water. His buckskin breeches were slung low on his narrow hips, the wide expanse of chest rippling as he stretched aching muscles. As he stood there, drinking a long draft of sweet spring water, he happened to glance their way. Leigh’s eyes locked with his, and for a breathless moment there was no one else in the world except the two of them.

Leigh inclined her head in polite acknowledgment of his presence, his slow smile coming in response as he watched them cross the yard.

As they neared the pens where the ewes with their newborn lambs were kept, Leigh’s step faltered slightly when she saw Nathaniel. He was riding the big bay he’d ridden across the plains, the image of him riding alone, of searching the horizon as he sat silently on his mount, always to remain with Leigh—for that was the essential being of the man. Since that day in his study, when they’d stood before the portrait of his wife and daughter, and she’d accused him of such selfish cruelty, he’d been as courteous and polite as he’d always been.

As he was now, Leigh thought as he tipped his hat in greeting, stopping to exchange pleasantries with her before riding toward the grasslands where his cattle grazed. But he never smiled, and had anyone been close enough to see the expression in his eyes, they would have wondered at the coldness. And had they chanced to overhear his voice, they might have thought the tone rather stiff and impersonal.

They reached the pens, and Leigh lifted Steward up to the rail where he sat wide-eyed, watching the lambs suckling their dams or nibbling tender green grass shoots in the meadow, Leigh’s hand hooked inside the waist of his breeches and keeping him from tumbling onto their woolly backs. When he tired of just watching, she led him and Noelle to another smaller pen where the lamb she and Gil had found was suckling at its adopted mother’s side, its tail wagging contentedly. Entering the pen, they waited until the lamb had his fill of rich milk, the ewe wandering off to graze as the lamb stood staring dumbly at them with round brown eyes that looked a lot like Steward’s as he returned the lamb’s gaze. Steward’s mouth dropped open as the lamb came tottering over to him, bleating a greeting. Leigh squatted down beside Steward, holding out his limp arm so he could pet the lamb as he’d been promised, his small hand patting the little creature on top of its woolly head as if it were a big puppy. Noelle stood close by watching, declining the privilege her brother was enjoying, but his excited squeals and giggles when the lamb licked his face with a rough pink tongue brought her a step closer, and Leigh could have sworn she heard an uncontrollable giggle from her when the lamb butted Steward, sending him sprawling backward, unable to maintain his balance on such short legs, his look of dumbfounded disbelief almost causing Leigh to laugh until she saw the tears beginning to well in his eyes at such an affront to his dignity.

“He didn’t mean to hurt you, honey,” Leigh said, picking up her little nephew, whose masculine pride had been deeply offended. “He was just showing you affection.”

Dusting off his breeches, and setting his cap, retrieved by Noelle, back on his curls, she kissed his cheek. “Would you like to go to the barn? The mouser just had kittens,” Leigh told him, smiling as his tears stopped miraculously and he hugged her tightly, turning a laughing face up to hers.

“Love Auntie Leigh. Pretty Auntie Leigh,” he said, his dimpled smile and long-lashed brown eyes already showing promise of a masculine charm that would be a serious threat to feminine hearts one day.

They entered the first of the several barns on the property. The other barns held the stored hay, the cribs and bins of corn and grain, and the stalls for dairy cows, with room for newborn calves, prized bulls and rams, and any expectant brood stock or sickly beast during the harshest winter months.

But this particular barn served the family’s immediate needs, for at the far end of the barn sat Nathaniel’s Concord coach that had just been delivered to Royal Rivers by special order from New Hampshire. It was a shiny dark red burgundy with gilded scrollwork and a beautiful landscape of mountains and desert painted on its door. The polished brass of the side-lamps gleamed beside leather-curtained windows, and the running gear had been made of seasoned hickory, elm, and oak—the sturdiest wood for the best durability was the company’s creed—and the seats had been upholstered in the finest buff leather. But the true comfort came of the carriage being suspended by two thoroughbraces, the leather strips absorbing the shock when wheels dropped into holes and rolled over bumps in the road, while allowing the carriage to rock as gently as a cradle, its passengers undisturbed. Nathaniel’s best driver would sit on the driver’s box, holding the ribbons, with a team of high-stepping Morgans pulling the conveyance, while a covered rear boot and railed area on the roof would hold all the baggage the family might find necessary for their journey.

In the stalls along the side, the six matched bays were stabled, waiting to be harnessed to the
patrón
’s private stagecoach.

“That’s strange,” Leigh said, taking off her jacket and folding it over her arm, the walk across the yard beneath the noonday sun having made her uncomfortably warm. Glancing around the last stall, she shrugged, for it now stood empty. “I’m sorry, but the mother cat isn’t here anymore. She and her kittens were curled up in that box when I was here the other day,” Leigh said, pointing to an abandoned box in the corner.

“Horsey. Wanna ride! Wanna ride now!” Steward declared with a stamping of his foot as he heard the curious neighing coming from the stalls.

“Not now, sweetheart. Those horses are much too big for you. They pull the coach. Would you like to ride Pumpkin?” Leigh asked, thinking it high time Stuart Travers’s grandson learned to ride, and that fat, grumpy little pony needed the exercise. In fact, she thought Pumpkin and Steward would get along splendidly.

“Pumpkin! Goin’ to ride a pumpkin?” he asked in amazement, beginning to giggle, then he was racing around the barn, his short legs kicking up straw as he circled, neighing and pawing the floor while pretending to wave an imaginary sword over his head.

Leigh watched him in amusement for a moment, opening her mouth too late to stop his cap from sailing through the air as she had feared earlier, the toe of his boot sending it high above his head and into the loft. He stood still for a moment, his giggles stopping abruptly as he touched his head where his cap should be, his shoulders drooping and his lips beginning to quiver as he looked over at his aunt. Leigh happened to catch her niece’s critical eye on her. “It was only a suggestion, I had no idea he would become so excited,” Leigh defended herself.