Stands a Calder Man (12 page)

“Does anyone call you Lilli?” It struck him as being more appropriate, more of a match to her outgoing personality than the formal Lillian.

“No.” No one had ever shortened her name, not her parents nor Stefan. She wished she had seen one of those tiger lilies he'd mentioned. It was hard to picture it from his brief description. For once, she didn't mind the trace of red in her brown hair.

When she started to climb the short set of steps leading onto the board sidewalk outside the general store, she felt the light support of his hand at her elbow. It stirred up a warm and pleasant feeling inside her. Turning her head, she gave him a full look, and she liked the raw strength in his sun-browned features.

Lillian had a vague awareness of people dawdling about in front of the store, but she was indifferent to them. It was like being in the city again, where little attention was paid to those on the sidewalks. So she missed the frowning looks given her because of the cowboy walking with her.

“What's your name?” she asked.

“Webb.” He offered no more than that.

She wondered if he was spinning one around her,
then smiled at such a fanciful thought. “How long have you worked for Mr. Calder?”

Turning his back to the bar, Nate Moore leaned the flat of his elbows on it and hooked a heel on the brass footrail. His beer was gone and he didn't want to spend the money for another when he wasn't thirsty anyhow. The billiard table offered about the only action available. His glance strayed to the far table where Benteen Calder was sitting with the big man, Bull Giles. Webb's chair was still unoccupied. He'd left about twenty minutes ago and hadn't returned yet. Nate supposed he'd been sent on an errand of some sort.

It was getting too quiet in the saloon to suit him. Maybe he'd go find Webb so they could liven things up a bit. He pushed away from the bar and swiveled the upper half of his wiry body to lift a farewell hand to his fellow riders.

“See ya later,” he said, not feeling obligated to tell them of his intentions.

His long, skinny legs were bowed a little from a lot of long days forking a saddle. They made little effort to pick up his feet as he ambled across the room. Pausing near Benteen Calder's chair, he adopted a genuinely respectful look for his boss.

“Where'd Webb take off for?” he asked when Benteen acknowledged his presence with a glance.

“He went over to the store to give Ruth and his mother a hand with their packages.”

Nate bobbed his head at the information and touched his hat in a casual salute. Webb's errand sounded as boring as this place had become, but Nate decided to go in search of him anyway.

Inside the general store, Stefan Reisner scooped up a handful of nails and sifted them through his fingers until only one was left in his palm. He tested its strength by taking it between his fingers and exerting a little pressure to see how easily it might bend.

“They are cheaper across the street,” he was advised by a voice on his right.

When Stefan turned, he recognized his new neighbor, Franz Kreuger. The man's dark and brooding eyes were difficult to meet for long, yet they seemed to have missed nothing. Franz Kreuger had been here for such a short time, yet he had acquired more knowledge about local people and places than Stefan had. Stefan tried to justify his own lack of awareness by reminding himself that he had devoted all his hours to improving his homestead. But he also knew inside that he was a follower by nature. It had been Lillian's father Reinald's idea to come to America, not his. Most of his dreams were shadows of someone else's.

On the other hand, Franz Kreuger was a leader, naturally asserting his opinions as he had at the well when he had denounced that big ranch owner's threats. He had made himself known to all the homesteaders, while Stefan had quietly listened and ventured no opinion.

But Stefan had never wanted to be the center of attention. By being quiet and going on about his business, he didn't attract confrontations such as Franz Kreuger had experienced with the rancher and his men. He was a passive man who never went looking for trouble, so he seldom found it.

“You have bought at the hardware store nails?” Stefan raised the nail he was holding, satisfied with its quality. “Good ones?”

Franz Kreuger nodded affirmatively. “I buy mine there.” He looked at the goods around them with displeasure. “The prices in this town are high for everything. So many things I could have bought cheaper in the city.”

“Ya,” Stefan agreed. “But the cities are far from here. The shop owner must pay freight for his goods to the railroads.” He had reasoned out the cause for the higher prices, although it had initially alarmed him when he had realized how much more had to be earned in this country in order to live and pay his debts.

“Are you buying nails to build your house?” the new homesteader probed.

“My house is finished, but furniture ve must have,” Stefan replied. “When the ground dries, a veil for vater I must also finish digging.”

“When the ground dries, I must get back into the fields with my plow.” Kreuger's mouth tightened into a thin line. “The rain did not come at a good time for me. My land is not ready to put the wheat in the ground. Two days I have lost. That is not good. I have not much time left to plant and grow a crop to harvest in autumn.”

Stefan could readily understand the man's concern. It seemed to explain the brooding anger that lurked in his eyes. “You said at the veil ve must together stick. My vheat is growing. Vhen the ground dries, I vill bring my plow and horses to your place. Ve vork together to plant your vheat.”

A smile formed on the man's face, an expression that seemed alien to its ingrained lines. “And I, Franz Kreuger, will come to dig your well for water.” He extended his hand to seal the bargain with a vigorous handshake. “Come. We will go to the hardware store and buy your nails for furniture.”

Stefan raised no objection at the way Franz Kreuger was taking charge. It reminded him of that bygone time when Reinald was alive, sharing the workload and doing nearly all things together. He had not been that close to another man since then. Perhaps his new neighbor would change that.

Side by side, they made their way to the door. Stefan had taken one step beyond the threshold when Franz laid a staying hand on his arm. Stefan halted to turn a questioning look at the Latvian to learn why they had stopped.

A frown had narrowed his eyes and darkened his expression, but his attention wasn't directed at Stefan. It went beyond him, focusing on something or someone else. Stefan turned to look.

“That cowboy,” Franz said in a low voice, and there
was only one individual wearing the clothes of that job. Stefan stiffened when he saw the cowboy was speaking to Lillian. His hand was gripping her elbow in a most familiar fashion. “He's the one the rancher Calder sent to threaten my family. Do you see how he has accosted one of our defenseless young women? Someone should do something to stop this tyranny.”

The words prodded Stefan to act. It was evident that since Lillian's back was partially turned to them, Franz hadn't recognized her. With quick, long strides, Stefan moved to confront this tough-looking cowboy bothering his Lillian.

“How long have you worked for Mr. Calder?” she asked.

“All my life, it seems.” Webb couldn't force the smile that might have lightened the flatness of his voice. Nor did he take advantage of the second opportunity to explain he was the son, not just another working cowboy. Sooner or later she'd find out, so he didn't understand his reluctance to make it known to her now.

“I—” She started to make a comment, but a guttural voice, thick with anger, slashed across her words. “You vill leave her alone!”

Before the harsh command was finished, a hand was reaching out to grab Lillian's arm and yank her away from Webb. For a split second, Webb was stunned by the suddenness of it. Anger flared in a purely instinctive reaction to the apparent attack as he faced the bristling drylander planted squarely in front of Lillian.

“What the hell are you doing?” Webb demanded an explanation from the tall, whiskered man.

“You stay avay from her!” The man was past middle-age, muscled but gaunt.

“Stefan—” Lillian pulled at the long arm that was keeping her shielded. She appeared confused and shocked by his aggressive hostility toward Webb.

“You don't understand—” She tried to protest, but he wasn't in any mood to listen.

“You vill go to the vagon.” Without taking his eyes
off Webb, he pushed Lillian to the side. “Franz,” he called to a man in a small-billed cap. “Take her to the vagon.”

Webb made a quick identification of the man taking Lillian by the arms as the hostile homesteader, Franz Kreuger. He swore under his breath, certain that man's twisted thinking had something to do with the animosity being shown by Lillian's father.

“I don't know what you thought you saw,” Webb began curtly, the Indian basket still in his arms. “But I was carrying this basket to your wagon. Your daughter bought it and—”

“She is not my daughter.” The man bristled more fiercely. “She is my vife!”

The announcement was a cold shock. His wife! Webb stared at the man more than old enough to be Lillian's father. It seemed a sin against nature that a man past his prime should be mated with a woman who had not reached hers.

The cold shock swelled into an icy rage. The man had no right to possess someone as young and fresh as Lilli. It was dirty and sordid, incestuous. Why? Why had she married him? How could she bear to have those old and callused hands touch her?

His hard, accusing gaze searched her out, finding her being helped onto the wagon seat. Her eyes clung to him, her expression mute in its appeal. Webb trembled with the effort it cost him to contain the fury that was looking for any excuse to bury his fist in the old man's face.

He wanted to crush the basket in his arms, but instead he shoved it at the man rooted in his path. “Your wife's basket.” His voice was sarcastic.

There was a moment of hesitancy before the basket was accepted, but the fight didn't leave the man's eyes. He seemed to expect it from Webb, almost invited it. It was difficult for Webb not to pick up the challenge and fight it out—the winner taking Lilli as the prize.

Tantalized by the thought, Webb quickly sized up his possible opponent. Despite the gauntness of the man's
frame, he had arms like slender oaks. He'd pack some force, but he was too old to last long. It wouldn't be a contest, and Webb knew it.

“You'd better get out of my way before I forget you are an old man,” Webb warned in a low, thick voice.

He didn't wait for the man to step aside. Instead Webb moved forward to shoulder his way past him. But as his body shoved at the man, the man shoved back. The force of it pushed him into the wall. Webb hit it hard, shaking loose the dust between the rafters. He started to come away from the wall, his muscles bunched to lunge at the man.

A wiry-framed body pressed him back and pinned his shoulders to the wall. Blinded by a primitive rage, Webb didn't recognize Nate until the cowboy spoke in a low, urgent tone.

“For crissake, Webb, have you gone crazy?” he demanded. “That's an old man.”

“Get out of my way.” Webb glared at the whiskered man standing with his fists half-raised only two yards from him, and tried to push Nate aside.

Although Webb was superior in size and weight, Nate was made of tempered steel. “Dammit, Webb,” he grunted impatiently. “I'm as game for a fight as the next man, but look around you. If you take that old man, this whole crowd is gonna jump on you.”

Some part of the warning penetrated his anger-crazed consciousness, enough to pull his attention to the closing circle of homesteaders. An attack on one of their kind would bring the whole pack into the fray. Only a fool would ignore them, and Webb had never counted himself as a fool. He was breathing hard as he relaxed his muscles.

“Okay,” he muttered to Nate.

Nate was slow to let him go. Webb swept the circle with a hard glare, then reached down to scoop up his hat from the board floor. With stiff, jerky movements, he made a show of brushing it off while he centered his cold gaze on the old man, Lilli's husband.

“Ve vill no more be pushed around. And you leave
our vomenfolk alone from now on,” the man ordered tersely.

It grated Webb to be dressed down without cause. “I was raised to have better manners, mister. Around these parts, a man always carries the packages for a lady. You're a newcomer. But the next time push comes to shove, you won't be standing up when it's over.”

He jammed his hat onto his head and angled off the walk. He heard the clumping of a pair of boots behind him, indicating Nate was right on his heels. Webb ignored the planked walk over the muddy ground and headed straight into the street, going to the hitching rail where his horse was tied. He yanked the reins loose and swung into the saddle, turning the horse's nose toward the general store. He glimpsed his mother and Ruth in the dark opening of the building. Both of them appeared bewildered and alarmed.

Then he looked over at the wagon where Lilli sat watching him with an expressionless face. There was not a hint of guilt or regret. He felt the anger rising again and dug the spurs into the horse. He rode out of town at a gallop, with Nate only a length behind him.

Hues of scarlet and orange swirled across the western sky as the sun lingered for a last few minutes on the edge of the horizon. Its light cast colored shadows on the rolling plains and darkened the wide stretch of ground, stripped of its native grasses. A rutted track divided the bared ground from the field where a new stand of wheat waved its young stalks in the evening breeze.

The team of Belgian mares, Dolly and Babe, picked up their pace as home came into sight. There wasn't any comfortable barn to welcome them, only a small corral and shed made of green wood. The square house was made out of green lumber, too, its dimensions twenty-four feet by twenty-four feet. The outside walls were covered with tar paper. One window was located in the front next to the door and a stovepipe had thrust its top out of the barely slanted roof, minus any eaves or overhang. A pair of guy wires was stretched across the top of the roof and anchored to the ground on each side so the strong Montana winds couldn't blow the flimsy house down.