Titans (7 page)

P
ony was at the crossroads to the pasturelands of Las Tres Lomas and the Triple S when she heard a fast-approaching horse behind her and the cry, “
Samantha, wait up!
” The voice quickened her heartbeat, but not enough to throw it out of rhythm. It had been trained against racing at the sight of Sloan Singleton some time ago. Samantha reined Pony around to observe her neighbor pounding toward her on his sleek Thoroughbred, halfway wishing she'd pretended not to have heard him. She felt the letter from Dr. Tolman burning a hole in her saddlebag.

As horse and rider drew closer, Samantha wondered if Sloan had been aware of his father's hopes for them. He had never given any sign of it, but he had learned a few tricks of demeanor, had Seth Singleton's son. It was necessary for a boy making his way in the world of tough, sometimes cunning and ruthless men to adopt the artifice of camouflage to conceal his thoughts and feelings. It was true that they no longer saw each other as they once had. The diversions of childhood they'd enjoyed together were relics of the past.

“Yes, Sloan?” Samantha greeted him as he reined up.

It was an unintentionally cool greeting, and Sloan's blue eyes tightened with surprise. If ever there was a man who looked bred straight out of the cow land of his heritage, it was Sloan Singleton. Tall, slim, straight as a Comanche arrow, brown as river rock, hardened by wind and sun, saddle seasoned, he could have passed for none other than what he was—a son of the range.

“That had a little ice in it,” he said.

“Did it? I'm sorry. I'm in a hurry, and I've got a lot on my mind.”

Sloan shifted in his saddle. “Like what?”

It was a question Samantha once would have answered without a second's thought. They used to tell each other everything. She gave him a tepid smile. “No time to tell.” He was dressed in a business suit, and Samantha remembered that this morning had been the monthly board meeting of the bank of which Sloan was chairman. The bank was owned by Noble Rutherford, Anne's father. Samantha unbent a little. “You must be coming from your board meeting,” she said. “You didn't stay for your usual luncheon with Anne?”

“Wasn't in the mood for it today. As a matter of fact, I went by your mother's town house to see if I could take you to the Worth for a bite, but Estelle said you'd already left.”

Samantha doused a flicker of joy before it lit her face. Sloan had preferred
her
company to Anne's for luncheon? Her mother would be dancing a jig in the foyer. “Well, then, I'm sorry I missed you, but Mother must have told you I need to get back to the ranch. Daddy is expecting me.”

“Can you spare a few minutes for me to apologize for Anne's unfortunate topic of conversation at your birthday party?”

“No need for that, Sloan. Really.”

“Yes, there is. I think she did it to impress without once thinking how it might affect you and your parents.”

Of course she did, Samantha thought, but a man in love would not see that. “Think no more about it. The subject was informative. Well, if there's nothing else…”

“There is,” Sloan said, moving his horse a trifle into her path. “It's about Billie June. She's still… well, she's still mad at me.”

“After almost a year? I'm sorry to hear it.”

“I can't get her to understand that I had to do what I had to do. It was the only way I could get her to stop seeing Daniel Lane.”

He wanted to talk as they had in the old days when no trouble went unshared between them. Samantha could see he was deeply bothered by the rift between him and Billie June. Sloan adored his sisters. Five and seven years older, Billie June and Millie May had been maternal substitutes after the death of his mother when Sloan was four, but the girls, especially Billie June, had given Seth Singleton fits. His daughters were for nearly everything their father had been against: Prohibition, women's suffrage, the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals. Their list of rebellious acts to support their causes had become the stuff of Fort Worth family legend. Among them was the girls' emptying of Seth's bottles of prized bourbon into the Trinity. Another time, they arranged the escape of two suffragettes arrested for disturbing the peace, and on another occasion, they marched onstage to break up a performance by Wild Bill Hickok to protest the mistreatment of his horses in his Wild West Show. They set animals dangerous to livestock free from their traps, released quarry captured for the hounds to tear apart in the Triple S's famous hunt breakfasts, embarrassed their father at dinner parties by espousing beliefs contrary to the guests, and could be relied on to take the side of every controversial figure in society.

While his father had been alive, Sloan had thrown his support to neither faction. Once head of the household, he had continued to assume a live-and-let-live policy, until Billie June's affair with Daniel Lane.

Sloan had no one to talk to about personal matters such as how to get out of this pickle with the remaining members of his family. Neal Gordon would unequivocally agree with his protégé's quashing the only possibility for marriage Billie June might ever have, and no confidants like Grizzly and Wayne Harris were on the Triple S payroll. Anne Rutherford worshipped him like a king, and since kings did not confide in subjects, Sloan Singleton stood virtually alone with no one in his life to lend an objective ear and offer an unbiased opinion.

Unless it was Samantha.

“Do you think I'm a bastard for what I did?”

Pony nibbled at his bit. He wanted to go home. “Are you looking for affirmation or denial?” Samantha said.

“You know better than to ask. The truth will do. I can always get it from you, painful as it is sometimes.”

“Was there not some other, less public way to express your disapproval of your sister's friend?” Samantha asked. “It was awfully brave of Billie June to appear at the picnic with Daniel Lane, and she did it to show her love for him.”

“She did it to defy me.”

“I doubt she was thinking of you at all.”

“Daddammit, Sam—” Sloan pushed back his Stetson, and a shock of sun-bleached hair sprang forward. “Billie June knows damn well Dad would never have allowed her to see a man like him. He's not worthy of her.”

“How do you know?”

“Oh, come on, Sam! What would a man like Daniel Lane see in my sister other than her trust fund? Lane's a good-looking guy, years younger than Billie June, not a nickel to his name while Billie June is… well, not to be unkind, but plain as a tin plate.”

“Your sister is smart, funny, and interesting, Sloan. Perhaps Mr. Lane has the intelligence to see beyond the plainness of the plate to its worth.” Unlike you, who can't see beyond Anne Rutherford's décolletage to her little black heart, she thought.

Sloan looked aghast at her. “You're as blind as Billie June if you believe that of him.”

Samantha patted Pony's neck to quiet him. “You may be the blind one, Sloan.”

Sloan remained silent for a moment, his eyes thoughtful upon her. “I'd hoped you'd agree with me and talk some sense into her.”

“I can't speak against a man I do not know. If I were to talk sense into anybody, it would be you. You're lucky to have siblings, Sloan. I wish I did.”

“You're telling me to make my peace with Billie June, is that it?” Sloan said, disappointment souring his voice. He reset his hat firmly. “Well, I can't if it means giving her my approval to continue seeing Daniel Lane. I'm doing what my father would have done. I'm protecting her from hurt.” He nudged his horse closer, the brim of his hat shadowing his eyes. “And what is this… wistfulness I heard in your tone just now? You have a sibling, Sam. You've got me. I've always been a brother to you and will continue to be. These last years… if I haven't been around as much, it's because I've been so occupied just keeping my head above water. The Triple S takes so much of my time—”

“And of course, Anne,” Samantha said, too quickly.

“She's been taking a part of it, yes.” Sloan gave her a searching look, and Samantha bent down to pat Pony's neck to disengage from it. Sloan had an uncanny way of reading her thoughts. He could detect trouble in her as clearly as he could spot a fish in clear water.

“No need to explain,” she said. “Sometimes Las Tres Lomas is more than Daddy and I can handle together.” She straightened and turned Pony's head toward his home. “I've got to get on, but keep in mind my comment, Sloan. Billie June misses her brother, too.”

She was about to dig her heels into Pony when Sloan called softly, “Sam…”

“Yes, Sloan?”

“I meant what I said—about being your brother. You do believe that, right?”

“I believe that, Sloan. Trust me, I do.”

I
t was the moment she relished the most when returning home, the instant Pony crested the small rise that gave a far-reaching view of the grazing acres and ranch compound of Las Tres Lomas de la Trinidad. A thrill of pride nearly always raced through her at first sight of the sweeping, cattle-studded pastures, corrals, and paddocks, the sprawling ranch house and outbuildings and threads of the Trinity River that wound through the valleys of the three small hills that had given the ranch its name. Nearly always, because there had been seasons when the view from the rise had been more heartbreaking than breathtaking, years of “brown springs” when not a drop of water had fallen and the tributaries had dried up. Samantha wished she could pause to take in and savor the spring lushness of her father's empire on this bright, rain-washed morning when the green of the fields and the russet hides of the fat, grazing Herefords were almost blinding.

But she could not tarry. Samantha had learned that truth, good or bad, was the best counter to worry. Most worries were based on uncertainty, and she could handle anything as long as she knew the truth. It might take a little working it out of her father, but eventually Samantha would get him to reveal the content of Dr. Tolman's letter, for better or worse. He could not keep anything from his daughter, but from his wife, yes.
Tell Estelle anything, and she mounts her horse and rides off in all directions
, he was wont to say,
but not you, Sammy girl. Thank God for
your cool head and bridled tongue.
Samantha could be worrying for nothing—
pole-vaulting over mouse turds
, as her father would say—and the letter could certainly be from an old army comrade. But then, why would the author write “Confidential” across the envelope and underline it in a strong, dark hand?

Samantha heard the one o'clock bell summoning the ranch hands to the Trail Head, Las Tres Lomas's dining hall, when Samantha turned Pony under the crossbars of the ranch and tethered him in front of the main house. The quarter horse was fractious, nibbling at his bit, snorting. The raucous sounds of men and horses and bawling cattle in the birthing pens came from half a mile away, and Pony was demanding in horse language why he wasn't a part of the activity. “Soon, Pony, I promise,” Samantha said, scratching the area between his ears while she withdrew the mail from her saddlebag. The poll was the only part of his face the horse allowed to be stroked.

She found her father in the ranch library at the far side of the great room, the main living area of the house. At its dining end, the table had been laid with plates and cutlery for two. They would be having their noon meal alone together in the main house, then, rather than in the Trail Head with the work crew. Samantha was relieved. Because calving mothers required someone be with them constantly, the men would come in shifts smelling of blood and placenta to sit down at their meals. Samantha could abide the birthing odors in the barns and corrals, but not at the dining table.

“
Samantha!
” Neal Gordon's greeting boomed from a barrel chest beginning to slope toward the onset of a thickening waist, but there was still a strong suggestion of the raw physical power that had made him a legendary figure among men who worked with cattle and horses and ropes and guns. He came from around his desk with arms outstretched to pull her into a hearty embrace. “I cleaned myself up just for you, so give your old man a big hug. I was expecting you earlier.”

He smelled of Ivory soap and freshly ironed cotton. He had changed out of his range wear into creased woolen trousers and a white shirt fastened at the collar with a string tie and silver clasp fashioned in the brand of Las Tres Lomas de la Trinidad.

“I ran into Sloan at the crossroads and stopped to chat for a while. He was going home after his board meeting at the bank,” Samantha said.

Interest, and a wisp of hope, sparked in Neal's eyes. “Good! You two haven't had a chance to visit for a while. That Rutherford gal had him tied up like a roped calf at your birthday party. What did he have to say?”

“Just the usual.” Samantha handed him the mail, studying his leathery face for signs of illness. She saw none.

“You should have invited him here for Grizzly's fried steak. It would have been great to see him.”

“It didn't occur to me,” Samantha said. “Did you have to pull many?”

His chagrined expression said,
Well, it should have
, before he answered. She was referring to the risky procedure of extracting a calf from the birth canal of its struggling mother, another life-threatening problem that Samantha's small hands had often corrected. “Only a few, thank goodness, since you weren't here,” Neal said. “We've had a strong, healthy crop so far. How's your mother?” He placed the stack of correspondence on his desk while he put on his reading glasses. Samantha had arranged it so that Dr. Tolman's letter was the last in the group. His reaction to the sender would tell her if there was anything to worry about. She would not get a straight answer if she asked him how he was feeling.
Fine
, he would say even if he was dying.

“Probably lonely by now, I expect,” she said. “She'd gotten used to having me around.”

Neal sniffed. “She doesn't have to be lonely, you know. Her choice. Mind goosing up the fire a bit while I look through these? There's still a chill in the air.”

Samantha took the stoker to the logs while watching her father stack the newspapers and periodicals in one pile and set the bills in another for her attention. He let out a grunt of surprise when he came to the letter from his Civil War comrade and said, “Well, what do you know? Here's one from my old buddy from the First Texas Infantry Regiment. I hope he's not writing to tell me he's dying. Oh, and what is this… ?”

Neal adjusted his spectacles and brought the letter closer to his eyes. It could have been her imagination, but Samantha thought he paled slightly beneath the deep, burned color of his skin.

“I see you have a letter there from a doctor marked ‘Confidential.' Is there something you're not telling me, Daddy?”

He glanced at her, startled. “Like what?”

“That you're sick.”

“Oh, good God, no!” Neal's guffaw made light of her concern. “If I were sick, I'd go to our old Doc Madigan in town. Nothing's wrong with me. Never felt better. No, the letter is from a… a veterinarian. They're called Doctor now, you know. He must be writing in reply to a letter I wrote him some time ago about his article on cattle ticks. He's developed a compound that wards off the buggers. I'm surprised he answered.”

“I don't recall the article.”

“That's because you probably didn't read it.”

His terse tone told Samantha that Neal Gordon had said the last on the matter of the letter. She was not to push further, a rare stance for him to take with her. Now she
was
worried. She reviewed every article pertaining to the cattle business that he read and then they discussed it. In none of their periodicals had she read of a compound for treating cattle ticks developed by Dr. Donald Tolman. Further, if the contents of the doctor's letter were as her father claimed, why did he not read it at once and share its information with her? But if he had written away for information about a health issue, why to a doctor in a small river town in the Oklahoma Territory? Marietta was located a few miles inland from the Red River, not exactly the likely home of a physician her father would consult for medical counsel.

“You'll probably want to have a wash before we eat, so why don't you run up, and I'll have a couple of drinks poured when you get back,” Neal said. “We'll have time for a snort before we eat. There's something I want to discuss with you.”

He was getting rid of her so that he could read the letter in private, Samantha thought. No matter. Should he not show it to her, she knew where her father kept his private papers and the location of the key if it should be locked. She
must
find out what was in that confidential letter and why he was so secretive about it.

Washing her hands and face in the bathroom, Samantha studied her facial features in the mirror above the basin. Did Sloan Singleton find her the least bit attractive? She could not recall one compliment he'd ever paid her appearance. She would have remembered. Her hair was her best feature, of course, but her gray eyes were clear and well shaped, her nose small and pert, and the rest of her features suitable to her face. She had good skin and a pleasing figure, all pretty enough, but sparrow plain compared to Anne's peacock beauty.

The trace of depression that had hung over her ever since awakening from that dream this morning had now formed into a full overhead cloud.
Never be afraid of your thoughts and feelings, no matter how scary
, her father had instructed her.
Face the buggers like you would any other threat to your person. Examine 'em. Question 'em. Find out where the hell they came from, what they're doing in your head and heart. Sooner or later, understanding will come.

Understanding had come. Life expectancy for a woman in 1900 was forty-eight, and she was almost halfway through her allotment of years upon the earth. Her ship was firmly underway on an unalterable course, and there was no setting it in another direction. Inevitabilities loomed in the future. The correspondence from Dr. Tolman had sparked a fear she'd not allowed herself to dwell on. Her parents would get older and one day die, and she would be left to run and preserve one of the biggest ranches in Central Texas, not her first choice of a life pursuit. The man she loved would marry someone else, and she had little hope for another to come along who would win her heart.

Well, so be it, Samantha thought, drying her hands. She would take life as it came and make the best of it. There could still be surprises. No sea stayed unchanging.

Neal handed her a glass of sherry when she returned to the library and settled down with his bourbon in his “papa bear” chair, as Estelle called it, while Samantha took her usual seat on one end of a deep leather couch. She glanced at the desk. Neither letter was visible. She would wait until he brought up the subject of their contents in his own good time.

“What did you want to talk to me about?” she asked.

“At our poker game Monday night, Buckley Paddock told me about a wheat farm going up for sale in Cooke County—140 acres. Buckley says that the owner's ad will appear in the classified section of the
Gazette
starting this Monday, and from the description, the place appears to be within proximity to La Paloma.” Buckley Paddock was the publisher of the
Fort Worth Gazette
; La Paloma was the name of a cow camp, home to a portion of Las Tres Lomas's herd.

“In what direction and how much?” Samantha asked.

“North,” Neal said, “and the ad doesn't say.”

Samantha understood the meaning of the twinkle in his eyes. Las Tres Lomas ran five thousand head of cattle on ten thousand acres in Cooke County. It was a large operation overseen by another foreman who had been on the Gordon payroll half his lifetime. The camp was situated seven miles from the Red River, an ideal location from which to move the herd at market time across the river to the Missouri-Kansas-Texas Railroad's loading ramps in Marietta for transport to the Kansas stockyards. The only hitch was the intervening wheat farm that cut off direct access to the river, requiring that the herd be driven around the farm ten miles out of the way to reach the ford crossing. Samantha had never been to La Paloma. The camp lacked amenities suitable for a lady.

“It could be the farm that smacks right up next to our holding,” Neal said. “Years ago when I bought La Paloma, I approached the owner about buying his place, an irascible old goat named”—he thought a moment—“Barrows. Liam Barrows, but he informed me that farm had been in his family since before statehood, and that his two boys would make sure it stayed. He didn't care if I had to drive the herd to hell and back to get across the river.”

“Sounds like a nice neighbor,” Samantha commented. “So what are you proposing?”

“That we—you—check out the place. What harm can it do? Buckley says it won't stay on the market long. We'll get all the details in Monday's paper, and I propose that we immediately contact the owner by telegram and set up an appointment to look over the place. You can take the train to Gainesville.”

Samantha did not ask why she should be the one dispatched. Why not her father to look over the place? His answer would have embarrassed him. Neal Gordon was ashamed of the phobia that made it impossible for him to endure the close quarters of a train compartment. To go by horse would take the better part of three days and risk the chance the farm could be sold by the time he arrived.

Samantha thought the idea worth considering. In regard to acquiring land, her father had sometimes failed to show good judgment, but in 1890 he had wisely purchased 160 sections to add to the 166,400 acres of grazing land of La Paloma where he could permanently establish a part of his herd. Before the purchase, when the summer heat of Central Texas dried up grassland, Las Tres Lomas had enjoyed open access to drive three thousand head of cattle north to Cooke County to relieve the number of bovine mouths to feed at the home ranch.

If we don't make a move now, Estelle
, Samantha remembered her father saying in a family discussion,
it may be too late in a few years. Prices will rise, and fences between here and our summer range are going up faster than a maple sheds its leaves in fall. It won't be long before passageway to drive our cattle up to La Paloma will be blocked, and then what will we do? You know that in summer, the whole herd can't be sustained on the grass we have here, and there's no land contiguous to ours going on the block anytime soon to fix the problem.

Neal was warden of the ranch's purse, but Samantha was keeper of the books, and it was her job to play devil's advocate when it came to spending proposals. Her father, bent on becoming a titan in the cattle industry and making Las Tres Lomas de la Trinidad one of the biggest ranches in Texas, sometimes had to be reined in, especially if there was a bulging surplus in the bank—the Cattleman's Bank, rather than the Rutherford City Bank.