Widow Woman (4 page)

Would Nick Dusaq say something, sometime, somewhere?

She had to do something. And she had to do it now. Before any more days followed like this one.

"Mr. Dusaq."

He took two more steps on his intended path before he stopped and turned to where she stood in the shadow by the corner of a shed. His face might not reveal much, but his movements right now said reluctant.

That gave her courage.

"I told you, call me Nick."

She supposed she shouldn't rile him right this moment.

"I'd like a word ... uh, Nick."

"Ma'am.” He accepted with no eagerness.

She looked around. No one else was in sight, but they'd be spotted by anyone coming out of the bunkhouse or Shag and Ruth's cabin. She didn't want any wonderings or questions over what she might have to discuss with this particular cowhand in private.

"Let's go in the barn.” A moment ticked past before his hat dipped in acquiescence, then he tucked his hands in the front pockets of his pants and took a half step back for her to precede him. In every move, she sensed his reluctance.

Sufficient moonlight leeched into the barn through the open door and the less than impenetrable walls and roof that she easily made her way to where Warrior stuck his head out of a stall. The stallion nosed at her, nodding his head several times, then stamped a hoof.

"He's wanting to get out."

Dusaq's voice sent a current of uneasiness through her, even though she'd been aware of him behind her. She just hadn't been aware he'd followed close enough that when he spoke, his breath stirred the tendrils worked loose of her braid, brushing them against her forehead with a tickling that made her shiver, though she wasn't the least cold.

"He had a bad gash in his shoulder. I want to be sure it's full healed."

"Looked healed to me."

As if in agreement, the stallion nodded twice and pushed at her shoulder again. She smiled as she gave the insistent nose a good rub. He was a handsome dun with black tail, mane and stripe down his spine. He also was intelligent, durable and good-natured. His get had few blemishes and even fewer defects. If she had two more stallions like him, the Circle T would have the best cow horses in the area—no question.

"When did you look at Warrior?"

"Told you, when I rode in.” He reached a hand over her shoulder, and Warrior snuffled at it inquisitively.

The reference to their interview this morning reminded her of what she'd brought him here to talk about. She stepped sideways, no longer caught between the horse and the man.

"You had him since a foal?"

She suspected he already knew the answer. Bunkhouse conversation would have filled him in quickly enough on the outlines of her life and her notions about breeding cow ponies. She pushed aside thoughts of what else he might have heard. Or what he might have said.

"Yes. But that's not what—"

"Can't breed one stallion. Bloodlines'll get too narrow."

She tried to make out his face in the filtering darkness. She couldn't from the distance she'd put between them, and finally took a step forward.

"You know about breeding?"

"Some."

That was how he'd answered Shag's question about cattle. She suspected this was an equal understatement.

"I'm using other studs besides Warrior.” Hearing his name, the horse stretched his neck for another rub. She stepped in to give the required caress, also cutting her distance from Nick Dusaq. Beyond the familiar smells of horse and hay and barn, she caught a faint scent that must have been the man. Leather and clean sweat on cotton and sunshine-soaked skin. Pa smelled like that. “I trade with other folks around who're interested in raising cow ponies."

"Been interested long?"

She smiled, lulled by his neutral tone and her memories.

"All my life. Mama used to chase me out of the barn or in from the range long enough to teach me lessons and give me lectures on behaving like a lady. She'd wrinkle her nose and say no matter what she did, I smelled too much like a horse to ever be mistaken for a lady. Then she'd laugh and hug me. Then after...” She heard her own quick sigh as the memories turned painful. “She died when I was thirteen. Pa didn't have the heart to spend much time in the house with Mama gone. I helped him run the Circle T. Until—"

What am I doing?
With something near horror, Rachel stared at the dark, still man before her. She couldn't believe how much she'd told this stranger. And how much more she'd been on the verge of telling him. Far more than bunkhouse talk ever would divulge, because the only people alive who knew the rights of it were her, Shag and Ruth. “I'm sorry,” she said stiffly. “I had no call to run on like that."

He hitched one shoulder in a brief shrug. “Folks need to talk sometimes."

"You don't.” She instantly regretted that.

To her amazement, the lines around his mouth slowly lifted, his lips turned up and a slash of white appeared as Nick Dusaq grinned. It wrought a devastating change to his face, charming and inviting. She stared at him, with just enough presence of mind to keep from gaping.

"I'm not most folks,” he said, amusement in his voice. Then, as slowly as it had come, the grin vanished until his face settled into its incommunicative mold. “And some things don't need saying."

No telling what he had in mind, but she had something that did need saying. Or she'd jump right out of her skin before another sundown with Nick Dusaq around.

"Well,” she started, briskly if unoriginally, “what I wanted to talk to you about, Mr. Dusaq—"

"Nick."

"Uh, Nick ... What I want to make clear is that whatever contact—no, I mean ... uh, encounter. Whatever
encounter
might have taken place between us before our hiring you, well, that was before.” She darted a glance at him. “And..."

Her words faded as a longer look confirmed what the glance had gathered. He wore not a hint of expression.

That irked her. Without stopping to consider why it irked her or if she
wanted
a reaction, she demanded, “You do remember encountering me at Jasper Pond, don't you?"

"Yes."

Pa had once shown her a hot spring in the dead of winter, edged with a skin of ice. If you pushed your hand below the layer of ice, the water steamed your fingers red in no time. That was what his single word reminded her of. Heat—dangerous heat—under ice.

She swallowed, and sought the protection of words. “Well, that was before you came here and hired on. Not that it was anything. It wasn't. I don't want you misunderstanding or thinking things that aren't so. I'm the boss at the Circle T. And I don't want there to be any confusion on that. Not with you and not with any of the other boys, if you should go talking about, um, about things."

She glared at him, ready to battle on whatever front he might choose. He raised his hand, and for a slice of an instant she had the wild image of him cupping her cheek in his palm. Instead, he tugged the brim of his hat, perhaps from politeness, or perhaps simply to adjust its angle.

"As I said, ma'am, some things don't need saying.” Before she could respond, he was gone, and she stood alone in the darkened barn with the touch of cool night air and a jumble of dissatisfying thoughts for company.

Nick settled in to the Circle T's routine. As much a routine as any ranch had, especially one carrying a dozen hands when it needed a score.

For days at a time, he'd be gone riding the herd and learning the Circle T range. Most often Shag paired him with Andresson. That meant teaching the boy, as well as meeting his own duties, providing plenty to occupy a man.

Considering how accustomed he was to being alone, he didn't much mind.

Davis worked hard, didn't talk his ear off and learned no slower than most. To start, the Iowa farm boy didn't know cattle from pigs, but his riding was better than adequate, and animals took to him. The bunkhouse dog shadowed the skinny figure, and even difficult horses minded their manners better with the towhead aboard. To Nick's surprise, that extended to his black, Brujo, who often seemed to only tolerate Nick and came nowhere near that comfortable with anyone else.

The boys from the second drive from roundup straggled in looking worse than the lowest drags of a mangy herd. Smelled worse, too. Hands and horses alike settled in for a week of eating heavy and working light.

So, when word came of cattle in trouble. Shag sent Nick and Davis along with Joe-Max Nelson and red-headed Tommy Hodge. They found about a hundred half-dead head in a canyon closed off by a rock slide. They dug out a path, and started trailing the head a day-and-a-half up-country. At first the cattle were docile, but Nick warned that with food and water they'd revive quick enough.

The second afternoon, the small herd bolted.

"Turn ‘em!” Nick shouted above the hammering of hooves on the hard ground and the bellowing of the beasts. A glance showed Joe-Max behind him and Tommy, his red head bobbing in and out of sight as he waved his hat, on the other side, moving to circle the leaders into the herd, to form a living pinwheel that would wind itself to a stop.

But Andresson didn't seem to hear or to remember what he'd been told. Instead of turning the leaders then letting the next rider turn them more, he went head-on with the run-crazed steers.

"Andresson! Goddammit! Turn ‘em!” Against the bellows and pounding, Nick's shout was a feather in a tornado. He could only watch and grimly hope Andresson hadn't used up his share of luck.

Horse and cattle charged headlong at each other. At the last second, Davis swerved his mount just out of danger from the first steer's horns. But the herd came right behind, seeming to swallow horse and rider in a sea of dust.

If his horse stumbled, or reared, if Andresson slid out of the saddle...

But rather than running over him, as maddened cattle could, they split around the lone rider, and kept running.

"Which saved your hide, but meant a sight more work for the rest of us and ran off meat from head that couldn't spare any to start,” Nick snapped at Davis hours later, after they had the animals under control and could break for water and food.

"I'm real sorry, Nick. I know you told me. I forgot."

"Forgot?"

The blistering word produced a glowing red beneath the dust-dimmed gray of Andresson's face.

"You might be too stupid to be worth anything, but these cows are worth something. And you don't have the right to forget when it costs your employer money.” Nick turned on his heel and returned to the herd.

"Kind of rough on the kid, weren't you?” Joe-Max asked hours later when he relieved Nick on night watch.

"No.” He'd seen what hooves did to a body—that was his idea of rough.

Joe-Max stroked the lush mustache that was his greatest pride. He'd been with the Circle T since they'd moved up from Platte River country. If he and Nick got to opposite sides of too many issues Nick didn't suppose he'd be picked to stay over Joe-Max.

Finally, the other hand shrugged, and moved off. No one said anything more. But Nick noticed next time a herd ran, Davis did his part right.

Yeah, riding herd on a green youngster as well as cattle could keep a man busy. Even around the home ranch Nick kept busy. Too busy to catch more than glimpses of the Circle T's owner, to pass more than pass a word of greeting, to come closer than the far end of the long table at meals.

If the image of Rachel Terhune rode along with him over the endless, rolling ground, if it settled in beside him in the bunkhouse, it was nobody's business but his own. And nobody's fault but his own ... and perhaps that rattle-mouthed bartender who'd sent him to the Circle T.

After breakfast Nick stowed two cans of tomatoes, some beans and coffee in his bags, and tied his slicker and bedroll behind Brujo's saddle in preparation to follow Shag's orders to look over the branding pens they'd start using next week, and to repair what needed it.

Most outfits waited for fall to catch calves missed in the general spring roundup. But if you had doubts of the other outfits branding with you in spring, summer branding could trim losses. He wondered if the Circle T's summer branding had anything to do with the unexpectedly high losses from last winter Shag had mentioned.

"Nick!"

He turned at the foreman's shout to see Shag and Rachel crossing the yard. He went ahead and mounted.

Otherwise he might have been tempted to spend the time waiting for them by watching the Widow Terhune. She had a way of walking. No prissy little steps like some women. Purposeful, but graceful. It set the split skirts she wore swaying. And that hint of movement had him thinking on what might be hidden with an uncomfortable amount of interest He twisted around as if a bedroll tie needed attending.

"Nick, we want a word with you,” Shag started.

Nick's eyes slid to Rachel. She seldom looked as if she wanted a word with him. Mostly she looked as if she wished he'd disappear. Right now was no exception.

"We've been talking it over,” the foreman went on, “and with branding coming up and all, I'll need somebody else out there giving orders, official like, so everybody knows what's what. We'd like that to be you."

"How about the others?” A newcomer set up as boss might rouse ill feeling. He didn't mind for himself, but the Circle T needed all its hands pulling together.

"Shouldn't be a problem. They've taken to you. And when Bert Overton—that's the hand who had the job before—went over to Thomas Dunn, nobody asked about stepping up. I think they'll know you're the one who can handle it. We know that's the way of it."

Nick figured Shag's statements went for only half of that “we” he kept throwing around. As if feeling his look, Rachel raised her head and met his eyes. Hers held a belligerent glitter.

"There'd be no more pay with this,” she declared.

"Chell...” Shag's protest died quickly. Nick figured the old man knew he'd dragged her about as far she'd go.

Nick crossed his arms and leaned forward over the saddle horn, enjoying himself.

"No, ma'am, didn't expect there would be."