Dorothy Garlock (34 page)

Willa paused in the doorway. It was getting hard to think of an excuse to close the door when she left the room. Billy
was sure they had gotten rid of the rats and the holes where they had come in had been plugged.

It disturbed her the way Jo Bell crept about the house, not speaking to her or to Inez, but giving them sly looks as if she knew a great secret. The girl was up to something and Willa wanted to be sure it had nothing to do with Maud.

“Don’t be shuttin’ the door. Ya hear? I want to hear what’s goin’ on in
my
house.”

“A mouse might come in.”

“Hellfire. I’ve shot bears in my day. Why’d I be scared of a mouse?”

“Ring the bell if you want anything. It’s there on the table.”

“Damn cowbell hurts my ears,” Maud grumbled.

Willa had to smile. Maud was feeling better.

Downstairs, she found Inez in the parlor struggling to push back the heavy draperies that covered the windows. A cloud of dust floated in the air.

“Beats me why anybody’d want the winders all covered up thisaway. There’s enough cloth here to cover a lodge pole teepee and have some left over. Ain’t decent to waste all this cloth just lettin’ it hang here shuttin’ out the outdoors.”

Willa silently agreed with Inez that it was a waste to cover the beautiful view of the mountains.

“Will you keep an eye on Mrs. Eastwood’s door while I go to the outhouse? She didn’t want me to close it.”

“Sure, honey. Get on out there and do yore business. I was goin’ to take bed clothes up anyhow. It’ll take me a while to get ’em in the chest. Got to fold ’em just right, y’know.” Her eyelid drooped in a knowing wink.

“I’m glad you’re here, Inez. I’m so glad,” Willa said softly and squeezed the woman’s arm when she passed her. “I don’t know if I could bear it if not for you.”

“Go on with ya before ya mess yore drawers.” Flustered
because of the compliment, Inez’s voice boomed in the quiet house.

Willa paused on the porch and looked off toward the bunkhouse and the corrals. Smith had been gone for a week. The morning after she had left him on the porch, Charlie had come to tell them that Sant Rudy had left to hire the Indians who would help round up and break the mules he and Smith had sold to the railroad. Charlie was going with Smith and the drovers to drive cattle down from the upper range. Sant would join them later.

“Smith said I’ve got the makin’s of a real cowhand. He’s givin’ me a trained cow horse to ride—one he trained his self. I’m ridin’ with Boomy. He’s kinda foreman under Smith. Smith says Boomy’s got more know-all ’bout cows than anybody he knows. Smith says Sant hates cows.” Charlie had been so excited that the words had tumbled out of his mouth. Willa had smiled.

“I’m glad you’re going, Charlie, but be careful.”

“Smith says I’m ready to take on a man’s job.”

Smith says.
Charlie thought what Smith didn’t know wasn’t worth knowing. Willa tried to shut off the powerful physical memory of Smith’s arms around her, his lips against hers. Each time she thought of it the same breathless feeling arose in her.

Impatient with herself for dreaming of the impossible, she stepped out into the bright sunlight and hurried down the path. When she reached the privy, she saw that the board nailed to the side to keep the door shut was up. Someone was inside. She turned to retreat up the path but was stopped by Jo Bell’s voice.

“I said, are ya wantin’ to use the outhouse?”

Jo Bell’s hair was held back with a blue ribbon and the neckline of the blue checked dress she wore had been lowered to show the tops of her breasts. She wore lip paint and a pair
of Starr’s dangling earrings. Since Smith had left the ranch, she had dressed as if she were the lady of the manor.

“Why else would I be here?” Willa said brusquely.

Willa moved past her and into the privy, pulled the door shut with a bang and latched it. She held her breath through the seconds of silence that followed. She heard Jo Bell laugh. The girl had moved over close to the door.

“Bet ya a pretty ya don’t know where Smith’s gone to. Ya think he’s out workin’ with the hands, but he ain’t.”

Willa swallowed the tightness in her throat and remained silent.

“He come back half-sloshed and went off again. Billy sent the Indian to fetch him, but it wasn’t no use. He’d got him a whore and a stash of whiskey and said he wasn’t comin’ back till both him and the jug was drained dry. Papa said a real honest-to-God whiskey sot would get a cravin’ for whiskey and whores. Nothin’ short of a bullet in the head’ll get that notion out once it’s in there.”

He had come back and left again.

Willa shut her eyes tightly against an unwanted surge of hot tears. The kisses they had shared had meant nothing to him! Nothing deep and lasting. It was evident that Smith Bowman had no need for the love, enduring love, of a woman. All he wanted was whiskey and a whore. The pain of knowing that was fresh and sharp and hurt like hell! What did she expect from a man like that, for heaven’s sake? He had said that he didn’t want to
like
her.
Like
had to come before love. Didn’t it?

Her face burned with shame. Demoralizing as it was, she loved him and had told him so. It was insane that she could be in love with a man who was a fall-down drunk, who wallowed with whores and who was completely ruthless. Yet, she had seen another side of him, a sweet and gentle side. That was the side she had fallen in love with. Mrs. Eastwood
had called him a murderer. Had he really killed her husband? She seemed to be so sure and Smith hadn’t denied it.

Pain stabbed her heart. How she both loved and hated the man for the feelings he stirred in her! She felt absolutely wanton when she was with him. Perhaps Mrs. Eastwood had a perfectly good reason for hating Smith. But Willa was sure that Smith had no intentions of harming the woman.

“Reckon I’d better go on and get outta the sun.” Jo Bell’s voice barged in to break up her thoughts. “I swan to goodness. I found two freckles on my nose this mornin’. Papa’d have a fit if he knew about it.”

With a satisfied smirk on her face, Jo Bell ran the toe of her shoe over the small circle of stones beside the outhouse door, then walked leisurely up the path to the house, swinging her hips in the way Starr had said was sure to tantalize any man watching her.

*  *  *

Standing close against a tree on the slope behind the ranch house, George Fuller studied the lay of the land through his spy glass. All around him were trees and brush. He had arrived at the place that morning after hearing in a saloon in Buffalo that the Eastwood hands were driving their cattle down from the upper range. He figured Smith Bowman would be away ramrodding the drive and he’d have a chance to talk to the girl. But first he needed to know how many men had been left at the ranch. So far he had only seen a squat, bow-legged Indian, a white-haired old man and a fat, black-haired woman—none of whom would give him any trouble.

He longed for a glimpse of the girl who had been in his thoughts for weeks. Just when he was about to lower the glass to rest his eyes, he saw a flash of blue on the porch.
It was
her.
He adjusted the glass with eager fingers and whistled through his teeth. God, she was a beauty. He felt the same
thrill he had experienced the first time he had seen her, standing by her pa’s grave. Watching her walk down the path to the privy ignited a fire in his guts and his manhood began to swell.

George wanted to shout for joy. Bowman hadn’t ruined
it
! It was coming back to life.

Holding his breath and scarcely batting his eyes, he watched Jo Bell until she disappeared inside the outhouse. He let a big puff of air out of his lungs, lowered the glass, rubbed his eyes, and lifted the glass again. The blond bitch who had bit him came off the porch and headed for the privy. He kept the glass on the door. The black-haired beauty came out, talked to the blond, and went up the path switching her little tail as if she knew he was watching. George laughed out loud.

His plan was to wait until dark. The girl would use the privy again before bedtime. He knew that if he could talk to her alone, she would come with him. If not, he would take her anyway and sooner or later she would accept him.

Behind George and to the right, the trail dipped down through the trees to the creek. He turned, scanned the trail, and swore. Two riders were leisurely walking their horses down the trail toward the creek crossing. One was hatless. The sun shone on his light hair. Even without the glass, he knew the blond was Smith Bowman. The other man was older and wore a high-crowned Texas-style hat with a rolled brim.

An idea popped into George’s mind. If he moved down the slope nearer to where he had tied his horse and hid himself in the brush, he’d have a clear shot at Bowman. Not knowing where the shot come from, the other man would break and run. It would be as easy as falling off a log. He had never back-shot a man, but after what Bowman had done to him, the bastard would get what was coming to him.

Running bent over to keep out of sight, he quickly found
the spot that would give him a view of the crossing. He checked his weapon and settled down to wait.

The rocky trail turned north and ran alongside the south fork of Clear Creek. Riding side by side, Smith and Sant followed a wagon path that skirted the huge boulders fringing the mountains.

There had been days of hard labor driving the longhorns from the burned up pastures in the north to the grasses down in Crazy Woman Canyon.

“I never want to see another dad-blasted longhorn as long as I live.” Sant looped the reins around the saddle horn and reached in his pocket for the makings of a cigarette. “What Oliver saw in them is beyond me. Never was a more ornery critter put on God’s earth than that bag of hide and bones.”

“They’re tough animals. When Oliver got the start for the herd, most Wyoming ranchers were getting herds from Texas. We’ll round up this bunch this fall, sell them, and get us a start of beef cattle.” Smith held out his hand for the tobacco and papers. “Charlie did good, didn’t he? He wanted to stay with the drovers.”

“From what I saw, he did. Boomy’ll look after him. He’ll have some rough edges when he gets back.”

“Why don’t you take him with you when you go down to break the mules?”

“Nope. I ain’t takin’ no kid to raise. I only come back to get me a chuck wagon and a couple a hands. Boomy’ll be here in a day or two. I’ll take the Kirk boys. They got some Indian blood. They’ll hit it off with the Cheyenne better than most.”

They rode through tall pines and scatterings of birch and aspen along the slope. The trail they followed wound down to a brawling, swift-running stream about a half mile from the ranch buildings. Willows skirted the banks, and a trout leaped in a pool formed by a rock slide.

Smith stepped from the saddle. While the horses were drinking, he allowed himself the luxury of thinking about Willa. A week ago, when he had set out on the drive, he had vowed not to take a drink of whiskey and not to think about her. He was surprised at how easy it was to get along without the whiskey, but not thinking about Willa was the hardest thing he’d ever tried to do.

In spite of the heat and the dust or how tired and irritated he was at the stubborn, cantankerous longhorn cattle, the image of her face floated across his mind. The last words she had spoken to him echoed in his ears when he lay down to sleep.
I may even love you. So there!

The beat of his heart quickened. He would see her tonight. He had a perfect excuse. It wouldn’t look right to Inez if he didn’t go to the house to see if things were going all right.

Smith was so wrapped in his own thoughts that he failed to notice that up the stream a pebble dislodged from the bank and fell with a tiny splash in the water.

Sant, squatting to drink, noticed. Then he noticed other things. There were no brown thrashers darting about and no yellow warblers among the willows. He got slowly to his feet, glanced at Smith, and saw that he was staring into the water, unaware.

In his own mind Sant was sure that someone was watching from the brush upstream. Smith’s horse was between them and whoever it was. Sant casually moved his hand down his side to his holster and freed his gun butt.

“Smith . . .” Sant spoke Smith’s name to get his attention. “Smith—”

Smith didn’t seem to hear. He bent, picked up a stone and tossed it in the stream.

“Psst . . . Smith, dammit to hell—”

Smith turned his head. “Yeah—”

It was then that Sant’s eye caught a tiny bit of blue color
among the brush where no such color should be. An instant later the loud sound of a rifle shot echoed down the ravine. Smith was knocked off his feet and into the water. His horse shied. The next shot creased the horse’s fetlock, causing him to rear, leap into the stream and dash for the other side. Another shot took the hat from Sant’s head.

Sant darted behind his horse and poured shots into the place where he had seen the color. Then he heard the sound of scurrying in the dry brush. He holstered his gun, grabbed Smith under the arms and pulled him out of the water. Blood poured from a wound on the side of his head, but he was conscious.

“Lucky ya turned yore head, boy. Ya pert near got it blowed off. Don’t look deep, but yore bleedin’ like a stuck hog.”

“My . . . leg—”

“Damn. The bullet that creased your horse went in yore leg. Looks like it’s still in there. Ain’t nothin’ we can do ’bout it now. Here, tie this around yore leg to shut off the bleedin’.” Sant whipped off his neckerchief. “I’m goin’ after that back-shootin’ son-of-a-bitch!”

Without waiting for Smith to reply, he mounted and put spurs to his horse, and the animal leaped up the bank. Sant turned the horse sharply when he saw movement and swept down through the woods at a rapid gallop. As he rode, he lifted his rifle, guiding the horse with his knees. When he was within firing distance of the rider, he took careful aim.

The rifle spoke.

The horse went down.

The man hit the ground, rolled to his feet and dived into the rocks at the edge of the trees.

A string of obscenities burst from Sant. It went against the grain to kill a horse, any horse, even one carrying a murdering bushwhacker. Sant swerved his horse in time to escape a
bullet that clipped the leaves above his horse’s head. A tide of fierce but controllable anger swelled within him. He hated nothing more than a dirty coward who would hide and wait to ambush a man.