Stands a Calder Man (11 page)

“The ranches around here are layin' off top hands. They ain't hirin' 'em.” His voice was hollow with resentment for the menial job he was doing, but he had a wife and family to support. “At least I'm gettin' paid to ferry these pilgrims across this ocean of grass.”

“You keep ferryin' em,” Nate replied, “and it won't be grass no more. Without grass, there won't be cattle. You're gonna wind up puttin' us all on the grubline.”

Jingles pushed his hat lower on his forehead to cover the guilt in his eyes as his chin came down. Nate urged his horse after the rolling buggy. Webb said nothing to add to the black cowboy's miseries as he rode by. The plummeting cattle market had made hard times for all ranchers. To cut expenses, most of them were operating with skeleton crews. The Triple C hadn't hired its usual contingent of seasonal riders, running strictly with its corps of permanent hands.

His father had said change wasn't always good. Jingles would agree with him. As Webb scanned the homesteaders' wagons scattered up and down the street of Blue Moon, he recognized they welcomed the change, and so did the merchants. Whether change was good or bad seemed to depend on a person's perspective.

A team of pale sorrels stood placidly in the trace chains of the wagon parked in front of the new bank. Their feathered fetlocks were encased in mud, disguising their white-socked legs. But the Belgian bloodlines of the two draft mares were unmistakable. For a cowboy, it was second nature to study animals and note their owners; almost as automatic as breathing.

When Webb spied the Belgian draft mares, he knew without taking a second look this was the team hitched
to the wagon the girl Lillian had been sitting in earlier. But the wagon seat was empty now. And he didn't see her among the pedestrians walking on the boards laid across the mud.

A long breath sighed from him as he looked around. A rawness worked on his nerves and coiled his muscles. That edgy feeling was back, a sense of dissatisfaction without knowing for what. Webb wasn't sure if it had ever left him. He didn't understand this restlessness, or its source. Was it the drylanders and the change they were bringing that was working on him? Or was it something inside himself?

His horse broke into a trot, reacting to the restlessness of its rider. Webb checked its pace with an irritable tug on the bit and clamped his jaw down on the urge to sink his spurs into the horse and ride away while he could.

The mug of beer in front of Webb was warm and flat. He had taken only one swallow from it. His father and Bull Giles were discussing politics, but he wasn't listening.

The other Triple C riders had gathered along the bar, supervising a billiard competition in progress. Their loud, rowdy voices and guffawing laughter emphasized the distinction between themselves and Webb's brooding silence. He felt tied and bound by the Calder name, not one of them. He reached for the beer mug, then pushed it away and stood up. He turned to avoid the sharply questioning look his father sent him. “Where are you going, Webb?”

“My mother and Ruth will probably be needing a hand with their packages.” It was merely an excuse to leave the table and the saloon in obedience to the agitation that charged him with a raw energy.

Bull eyed the younger Calder as he crossed to the door. “What's eating at Webb? He's like a range bull on the prod.”

Benteen glanced after his son and lifted a shoulder in a vague shrug. “Maybe he and Ruth had a falling out.” But he didn't believe that for a minute.

“Ruth certainly doesn't take after her mother.” As if sensing Benteen's reluctance to discuss his son's behavior, Bull turned the conversation down a different path.

“That's true,” Benteen admitted. “She's definitely her father's daughter, quiet and gentle just like Ely.”

“Is Webb engaged to her?”

“Half the time, I'm not even sure he's courting her. If he's got marriage on his mind, he's taking his own sweet time about showing it,” Benteen concluded with a disgruntled sigh, irritated by his son's avoidance of all responsibility even in the shape of an amenable wife.

Outside the roadhouse-saloon, Webb paused to survey the street. The buggy was parked in front of the general store next door. Beyond it was a wagon and the team of Belgian mares. Wide planks covered with muddy footprints were lying on the bare ground, providing solid footing to connect the board sidewalks of the two establishments. Webb waited on the saloon side while a family of drylanders with four children crossed on the planks. The youngest, a boy of four, tipped his head way back to stare wide-eyed at Webb.

“Where's the Indians, Mommy?” he questioned as he was forcibly urged past his first close-up look at a real cowboy.

A wry curve made a fleeting play across his mouth as Webb stepped onto the mud-slick boards and started across. The street seemed more crowded than ever, with more wagons arriving than leaving. It wasn't often that a family in this raw and lonely country—farmer or rancher—made a trip to town. When they did, it usually turned into an all-day affair.

The general store had been expanded to accommodate more business, but it had more than it could hold. There was an overflow onto the board sidewalk outside. Webb didn't see one pair of heeled boots or a Stetson hat among the trousered and bib-overalled men in front of the store. Once this town had known only cowboys—just a few short months ago. This had been his town. It was strange to feel out of place.

As he made his way to the door, the farmers moved aside to give him a clear path. Webb was conscious of their measuring stares. He nodded to one of them, but the man was slow to nod back.

The door was blocked open. Webb entered and stepped to one side, the hum of voices sounding louder
in the confined space. He searched the crowd of customers and spotted the man named Franz Kreuger who was homesteading the section of land adjoining part of the Triple C's eastern boundary.

During his second scan of the enlarged store, he caught a glimpse of blond hair in the dry-goods side. Webb shouldered his way to that department, where his mother and Ruth were busy fingering bolts of material. He glanced at the gingham-gowned women also gathered there, but didn't see any with dark copper hair.

When he touched his mother's shoulder, she turned with a slight start. Her expression cleared into a smile when she saw who it was. “I hope your father isn't ready to leave,” she declared, guessing Webb might have come to hurry them along. “Ruth and I haven't had a chance to do our shopping. We stopped by the church first before coming here. We only arrived a few minutes ago.”

“No, he didn't send me. I thought you might need somebody to carry your packages,” Webb explained, glad they didn't since the crowded store was giving him a bad case of cabin fever.

“Not yet, but don't go too far,” his mother admonished. “A woman can always use a pair of strong arms, can't she, Ruth?”

Ruth feigned an agreeing smile, but didn't look at Webb. A harried-looking Ollie Ellis, the proprietor of the general store, came bustling forward.

“I didn't mean to keep you waiting, Mrs. Calder,” he apologized for his lack of prompt attention. “What can I help you with today?”

“I was here first.” A bird-faced woman pushed Ruth aside to demand the owner's attention. “They just came in.”

“Go ahead and help this lady, Mr. Ellis.” His mother showed cool indifference to the woman's rudeness, courteously giving way to the woman's obviously rightful claim. “Ruth and I haven't decided which material we want.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Calder,” the merchant murmured, plainly relieved that she had acquiesced so graciously.

Someone accidentally jostled Webb from behind and offered a hasty apology. The air in the crowded store was stifling. “I'll wait for you outside,” he told his mother.

Her nod acknowledged his decision before he moved away, taking the most direct route to the front door. Webb didn't pause once he was outside the building. The sidewalk was too congested with gossiping farmers, so he recrossed the planked ground to the porch sidewalk of the saloon and roadhouse. Except for passersby, Webb had the porch all to himself. This lot of homesteaders were evidently a bunch of teetotalers, since none had been in the bar, either.

Leaning a shoulder against an upright post supporting the porch roof, Webb lit up a factory-made cigarette and let his gaze roam around the busy street. His eye caught a few details he'd missed earlier. At the new lumberyard where carpenters were hammering on siding for the unfinished building, a black-lettered sign was propped against the front wall. It read Pettit Lumber Company. The swinging shingle above the land company's office identified the business as the W P Land Locaters, confirming that Doyle Pettit had become Wessel's partner. The former rancher's name showed up again in small lettering under the sign for the Blue Moon Hardware & Supply store across the street.

It didn't take much guesswork to suspect that Doyle was also the one behind the proposed granary. It was a clever circle the former rancher had drawn, helping the homesteader to find land, selling him the tools to work it, and the lumber for his house. In time, Doyle would probably buy the man's crop. The farmer might never get rich, but Doyle sure as hell would. It was probably good business practice, but Webb didn't like the smell of it.

A set of light footsteps mounted the saloon porch to his left. With a partial turn of his head, he recognized
the slim girl in the wide straw hat. With a snap of his thumb and finger, he flipped the cigarette butt into the muddy street and straightened from the wooden post.

As he moved to intercept her, he saw the flash of recognition in the blue of her eyes. He felt a run of pleasure at the smile that came so naturally to her mouth. In her arms was a bulky woven basket, the kind the Indians on the reservation had been taught to make.

“Hello.” She greeted him first, her voice coming to him with the soothing freshness of a breeze on a hot day.

“Hello.” His fingers gripped the rolled point of his hat brim and were slow to let it go. Webb was fascinated by the frankness of her look. She seemed so at ease. Most of the young ladies he'd met, excluding saloon women, weren't very sure of themselves when men were around. Realizing he was staring too rudely, he lowered his hand. “May I carry that for you?” He motioned to the basket.

“I can manage it.” Her hold on it tightened ever so slightly, almost in unconscious defense of her property. “It isn't heavy.”

“I insist.” Webb reached for the woven basket, which she reluctantly surrendered into his care. “Did you buy this off the Crow squaw at the depot?”

“Yes.” He could see she was satisfied with her purchase. “She wasn't that anxious to sell it, but it will be so useful to store things in, and decorative, too.”

Few of the settlers had brought any furniture with them except family pieces. When they owned nothing, even a woven Indian basket would seem like a lot, he supposed.

“I hope you didn't pay what she asked,” Webb stated, aware the price was always inflated.

Her laugh was low and brief, yet with a rich vitality that was such an inherent part of the young woman. “No. I'm very good at bargaining. I always get a better price for something than Stefan does.”

It sounded like the innocent talk of sibling rivalry.

Webb let the name slide by, figuring Stefan was her brother, therefore of no interest to him.

“Our wagon is in front of the store.” She politely hinted that instead of standing in the middle of the porch talking, they should be walking to the wagon.

He shifted around to walk on the outside of her. “Yes. I noticed it there earlier,” Webb admitted and wondered if he had been purposely waiting to see her. “I guess you must have settled around here.”

“Yes, we have a place about fifteen miles west of town.”

West of town would put it near the Triple C boundary. He shot her a curious glance. “Is it anywhere near the Kreuger homestead?”

She looked at him in surprise, pausing a second before crossing the planks to the general store. “He's our neighbor. But how did you know that? He filed on the land not more than a week ago. As a matter of fact, we only met him today.”

“It was just a guess.” Webb shrugged.

A faint crease made a mark on her forehead as she faced the front again. “I'd forgotten you work at the ranch next to Mr. Kreuger's place.”

“How did you know that, Lillian?” A bemused curve lifted one side of his mouth. He'd used her name unconsciously and wasn't aware he'd done something wrong until she slid him a wary side glance. “It is Lillian, isn't it?”

“Yes.” Her attitude toward him altered in some indefinable way. It was as if she were trying to pull away from him, create distance between them.

But he refused to be put off by it. He leisurely studied her profile, taking note of the sun-golden color of her skin and the faint sprinkling of freckles along her cheekbone. The worn straw hat covered most of her auburn hair, swept up and hidden inside the crown, but a few wisps curled along her neck.

“I was in Texas a few years back to bring a trainload of steers north to fatten on this grass. I saw these flowers growing wild in a ditch. They were dark orange,
with black specks coming from the center of the bloom. Someone said they were called tiger lilies. That's what you remind me of, Lilli.”

It wasn't a deliberate attempt to flatter her, although Webb wasn't unused to complimenting women. He usually did so out of a sense of duty, either to a saloon's sporting lady who had given him a night's pleasure or to the daughter of a rancher or foreman. There weren't many respectable girls of marriageable age in the area. Most of them he'd known all his life, like Ruth. So everything about Lilli seemed new to him. She aroused his interest as few ever had.

She tried to appear unaffected by his flattering comment, remaining silent to ignore it. His pleasure in her deepened when he noticed she was stealing glances at him out of the corner of her eye.