Against the Rules (19 page)

Ricky tossed her head. “I've helped the ranch hands for years, but I've never seen you do anything more than make your own bed. What about you? You live off of this ranch, too.”

“Not for long,” said Monica breezily. “I'll never find another husband while I'm stuck out here in the sticks.”

Oddly, Ricky turned pale. “You're leaving the Bar D?” she whispered.

“Well, surely you knew that I wouldn't stay here forever,” said Monica, mildly puzzled. “The ranch belongs to Cathryn, and it looks as if she's come home to stay. It's time I made a home for myself, and I've never wanted it to be on a ranch. I tolerated ranch life, but only for Ward Donahue.” She gave a graceful shrug. “Men like him don't come along too often. I'd have lived in an igloo if that was what he wanted.”

“But...Mother...what about me?” Ricky sounded so distressed that suddenly Cathryn felt sorry for her, even if she was a spiteful witch.

Monica smiled. “Why, darling, you can find your own husband. You're a little too old to be living with Mommy, anyway, aren't you? Cathryn has offered me the use of her apartment in Chicago and I just might take her up on it. Who knows? I may find a Yankee who just loves my accent.”

Magnificently unconcerned, Monica continued down the stairs, then stopped and turned back to look at her daughter. “My suggestion to you, Ricky, is to stop playing games with that cowboy you've been teasing. You could do a lot worse than to take him up on what he'd like to offer you.” She continued on her way, leaving a thick silence behind her.

Cathryn looked at Ricky, who was slumped against the railing as if she had been hit over the head. Perhaps she had, because Monica could never be accused of subtlety. “What was she talking about?” Cathryn asked. “Which cowboy?”

“Nobody important,” Ricky mumbled, and walked slowly down the hall to her room.

Feeling both battered and confused, Cathryn sought refuge in the kitchen with Lorna. She collapsed into a chair and propped her elbows on the table.

“Ricky told Rule that I was going to sell the ranch,” she said baldly. “Rule jumped to the conclusion that the tale was true. We had an argument and I told him to feed himself; he's probably thrown the tray against the wall. Then I had an argument with Ricky over Rule, and right in the middle of it all Monica told Ricky that she's planning to leave the Bar D, and Ricky looked like someone had slapped her. I don't know what's going on anymore!” she wailed.

Lorna laughed. “Mostly what's going on is that you're so tired you're functioning on willpower alone and nothing's making a lot of sense to you right now. Monica and Ricky have argued all their lives; it's nothing unusual. And Monica has always said that if you came back she was leaving. Ricky...well, what Ricky needs is a good, strong man who loves her and makes her feel like she's worth something.”

“I feel sorry for her,” said Cathryn slowly. “Even when I want to choke her, I feel sorry for her.”

“Sorry enough for her to let her have Rule?” Lorna put in slyly.

“No!” Cathryn's response was immediate and explosive, and Lorna laughed.

“I didn't think so.” She wiped her hands on her apron. “I suppose I'd better go upstairs and see to Rule, though if he hasn't thrown the tray at the wall he'll be sure to throw it at me when he sees I'm not you. Are you going to see him at all?”

“I suppose I'll have to,” Cathryn sighed. “But not right now. Let him cool down, and maybe then we can talk without yelling at each other.”

After Lorna had gone upstairs, Cathryn sat at the table for a long while, staring at the homey, comfortable kitchen. It wasn't only Rule who needed to cool down; her temper was at least as hot as his, and if she were being truthful with herself, she had to admit that he usually controlled his far better than she did hers.

The back door opened and Lewis Stovall leaned his tall frame against the doorway. “Come on, Cathryn,” he cajoled. He'd dropped the “Mrs. Ashe” during the last few days and started calling her by her given name, which was only the logical thing to do considering how closely they had been working together. “There's work to be done.”

“Did Rule tell you to keep me so busy that I wouldn't have the energy to do anything but work and sleep and look after him?” she asked suspiciously.

His hard eyes crinkled at the corners as a tiny smile touched his face. “Tired, aren't you?”

“Punch-drunk,” she agreed.

“It won't be for much longer. Rule should be up and around next week, and he'll probably be back in the saddle the week after that. I've seen him do it before.”

“With a cast on his leg?” she asked doubtfully.

“Or his arm, or with his ribs taped up, or his collarbone broken. Nothing's kept him down for long. This concussion has put him on his back longer than anything else.”

She got up and went over to the door, sighing as she pulled on clean socks and stamped her feet into her boots. Lewis stood watching her with an odd expression in his eyes, and she looked up in time to catch a fleeting glimpse of it. “Lewis?” she asked uncertainly.

“I was just thinking that underneath the big-city glamour you're really nothing but a country girl.”

“Glamour?” she laughed, tickled by the idea. “Me?”

“You'd know what I'm talking about if you were a man,” he drawled.

“If I were a man you wouldn't even be thinking it!”

His laughter acknowledged the truth of that. As they walked across the yard, Cathryn worked up enough nerve to ask him a question that had been in the back of her mind since she'd first met Lewis. “Were you in Vietnam with Rule?” she asked casually.

He looked down at her. “I was in Vietnam, but not with Rule. I didn't meet him until almost seven years ago.”

She didn't say anything else, and when they were almost at the stables he asked, “Why?”

“You seem so much alike,” she replied slowly, not certain why they seemed to be cut out of the same mold. They were both dangerous men, hard men who had seen too much death and pain.

“He's never mentioned Vietnam to me.” A harsh note crept into Lewis's voice. “And I don't talk about it, either—not anymore. The only people who would know what I was talking about were there too, and they have their own troubles. My marriage broke up because my wife couldn't handle it, couldn't handle
me
when I first came back.”

The look she gave him was painful with sympathy, and he grinned—actually grinned. “Don't drag out the violins,” he teased. “I'm doing okay. Someday I'll probably even get married again. Most men moan and groan about marriage, but there's something about women that keeps them coming back for more.”

Cathryn had to laugh. “I wonder what that is!”

Her new sense of closeness to Lewis carried her through the remainder of the day, which was as hectic and troubled as the morning had been. One of the stallions was colicky, and two mares showed signs that they would be foaling before the night was over. When she finally trudged back to the house it was after seven, and Lorna reported that she had already carried Rule's tray up to him.

“He's in an awful mood,” she reported.

“Then he'll have to stay in one,” Cathryn said tiredly. “I don't feel up to soothing him down tonight. I'm going to take a shower and fall into bed.”

“You're not going to eat?”

She shook her head. “I'm too tired. I'll make up for it in the morning, I promise.”

After showering she fell across her bed, too tired even to crawl under the sheet. She fell asleep immediately, which was fortunate, because in what seemed like only a few minutes she was being shaken awake.

“Cathryn, wake up.” It was Ricky's voice, and Cathryn forced her eyes open.

“What's wrong?” she asked groggily, noticing that Ricky was still dressed. “What time is it?”

“It's eleven-thirty. Come on. Both mares are in labor, and Lewis needs help.” Ricky's voice was totally lacking in hostility, but then she had always been interested in ranch work. It didn't seem strange that Lewis had sent for the two women instead of waking some ranch hands to help him; they had both aided foaling mares before, though it had been years since Cathryn had done so. But the ranch was hers, and it was her responsibility.

Quickly she dressed and they hurried to the foaling barn, where only a few dim lights burned in the stalls with the mares. They had to be quiet to keep from upsetting the expectant mothers, so they didn't talk except in low tones. Lewis and the foaling man, Floyd Stoddard, were waiting in an empty stall.

Lewis looked up as the two women entered the stall. “Shouldn't be too much longer with Sable,” he said. “Andalusia will take a while more, I think.”

But though they waited, Sable still didn't foal, and Floyd began to get worried. It was almost two in the morning when he checked on her again and came back to the stall where they had remained, his face strained. “Sable's down,” he reported. “But the foal's turned sideways. We're going to have to help it. Everybody wash up.”

The two men stripped to the waist and washed in warm soapy water, then ran to Sable's stall. Ricky and Cathryn rolled their sleeves up as far as they would go and washed too, though they wouldn't actually be helping to turn the foal. The lovely dark brown mare was lying down, her swollen sides bulging grotesquely. “Hold her head,” Floyd directed Ricky, then knelt behind the mare.

At a loud, distressed whinny from the other stall, they jerked their heads around. Lewis swore. “Cathryn, see about Andalusia!”

Andalusia was down, too, but she wasn't in any undue stress. Cathryn reported back, then considered the situation. Ricky was using all her energy holding Sable's head down; Lewis was applying external pressure to help Floyd turn the foal.

“Andalusia's fine, but she's ready now, too. I'll stay with her.”

Sweat was pouring down Lewis's face. “Do you know what to do?” he grunted.

“Yes, don't worry. I'll call if there's any trouble.”

Andalusia raised her pearl gray head and gave a soft whinny when Cathryn entered her stall, then dropped her head into the hay again. Cathryn knelt beside her, her gentle touch telling the mare that she wasn't alone. The animal's large, dark eyes rested on Cathryn with touching, almost human serenity.

The mare's sides heaved with another contraction, and the sharp, tiny hooves appeared. Andalusia didn't need any help. Within minutes the foal was squirming on the hay, still encased in the shimmering sac. Quickly Cathryn slit the sac and freed the little animal, then took a soft, dry cloth and began rubbing it with long, rhythmic strokes. She crouched on the hay as the mare struggled to her feet and stood with her head down, her sides heaving. Cathryn tensed, ready to grab the foal and run if the mare didn't accept the baby. But Andalusia blew softly through her muzzle and came over to investigate the little creature trembling on the hay. Her loving, motherly licking took the place of Cathryn's cloth.

The little chestnut colt struggled to place his front legs, but as soon as he had them braced and tried to make his back legs obey, the front ones would betray him and he'd collapse. After several abortive tries he managed to stand, then looked around in infant confusion, not certain what he was supposed to do next. Andalusia, fortunately, was an old hand at this; she gently nudged the foal in the proper direction and instinct took over. Within seconds he was greedily nursing, his thin little legs braced wide apart as he balanced precariously on them.

When Cathryn returned to the other stall, Ricky was kneeling beside an unusually small foal, rubbing it and crooning to it. Lewis and Floyd were still working with the mare and Cathryn saw at once that this was a double birth. Her heart twisted a little, because so often with twin foals one or both of them failed to survive. From the looks of the frail little creature with Ricky, the odds were all against it.

Soon the other foal was on the hay and it was larger than the other one, though the markings were almost identical. It was an active little filly, who struggled to her feet almost immediately and raised her proud little head to survey the strange new world she was living in.

Floyd was taking care of Sable, so Lewis came over to examine the other foal. “I don't think she'll be strong enough to nurse,” he said doubtfully, taking in the limp way the foal was lying. But no one on the Bar D just left a horse to die. They worked all night with the foal, keeping her warm, rubbing her to keep her circulation stimulated, dribbling a few drops of milk from her mother down her throat. But she was very weak, and soon after sunrise she died without ever having been on her feet.

Tears burned Cathryn's eyes, though she had known from the beginning what the outcome was likely to be. There was nothing to say. Everyone in the barn was silent, looking at the still little creature. But when they looked in the other direction they saw not death but glorious, beautiful life as the other two newborns pushed their delicate muzzles into every nook of their expanded territories.

Lewis shrugged his shoulders, shaking the kinks out of them. “It's been a long night,” he sighed. “And we've got a long day in front of us. Let's go clean up and eat.”

Cathryn had almost reached the house when she realized that Ricky wasn't with her. Looking around, she saw that Ricky was standing with Lewis. She opened her mouth to call out, when suddenly Lewis's hand shot out to grab Ricky's arm. Evidently they were quarreling, though they hadn't been just a moment earlier. Then Lewis slid his arm around Ricky's waist and forced her along as he strode to the small house that was his private quarters. Not that Ricky needed to be forced, thought Cathryn wryly, watching the door shut behind them.

Well, well. So Lewis was the cowboy Monica had mentioned. She hadn't even suspected, though if she'd been less preoccupied with Rule she might have noticed the way that Lewis looked at Ricky. He had been watching Ricky that day when Cathryn had seen her hug Rule. Maybe Ricky didn't know it yet, but Lewis Stoval was a man who knew what he wanted and how to get it. Ricky had better enjoy her last days of freedom, thought Cathryn, smiling. That should certainly take care of Ricky's chasing after Rule.