Wyoming Tough (4 page)

“I do so. My mom told me all about them.”

He shook his head. “How the world has changed since I was a boy.” He sighed. “Some changes are good. Most—” he glowered “—are not.”

She laughed. “Well, I like my iPod, because it's portable music.” She attached her earphones to the device, with which she could surf the internet, listen to music, even watch movies as long as she was within reach of the Wi-Fi system on the ranch. “I'll see you later.”

“Got a gun?” he asked suddenly.

She gaped at him. “What am I going to do, shoot wolves? That's against the law.”

“Everything's against the law where ranchers are concerned. No, I wasn't thinking about four-legged varmints. There's an escaped convict, a murderer. They think he's in the area.”

She caught her breath. “Could he get onto the ranch?”

“No fence can keep out a determined man. He'll just go right over it,” he told her. He went back into the bunkhouse and returned with a small handgun in a leather holster. “It's a .32 Smith & Wesson,” he said, handing it up. He made a face when she hesitated. “You don't have to kill a man to scare him. Just shoot near him and run.” He frowned. “Can you shoot a gun?”

“Oh, yes, my dad made sure of it,” she told him. “He taught me and my brother to use anything from a peashooter to all four gauges of shotguns.”

He nodded. “Then take it. Put it in your saddlebag. I'll feel better.”

She smiled at him. “You're nice, Darby.”

“You bet I am,” he replied. “Can't afford to lose someone who works as hard as you do.”

She made a face at him. She mounted her horse, a chestnut gelding, and rode off.

The open country was so beautiful. In the distance she could see the Teton Mountains, rising like white spires against the gray, overcast sky. The fir trees were still a deep green, even in the last frantic clutches of fading winter. It was too soon for much tender vegetation to start pushing up out of the ground, but spring was close at hand.

Most ranchers bred their cattle to drop calves in early spring, just as the grass came out of hibernation and grain crops began growing. Lush, fresh grass would be nutritious to feed the cows
while they nursed their offspring. By the time the calves were weaned, the grass would still be lush and green and tasty for them, if the rain cooperated.

She liked the way the Kirk boys worked at ecology, at natural systems. They had windmills everywhere to pump water into containers for the cattle. They grew natural grasses and were careful not to strain the delicate topsoil by overplanting. They used crop rotation to keep the soil fresh and productive, and they used natural fertilizer. They maintained ponds of cattle waste, which was used to produce methane that powered electricity for the calving barn and the other outbuildings. It was a high-tech, fascinating sort of place. Especially for a bunch of cattlemen who'd taken a dying ranch and made it grow and thrive. They weren't rich yet, but they were well-to-do and canny about the markets. Besides that, Mallory was something of a financial genius. The ranch was starting to make money. Big money.

Cane went to the cattle shows with their prize bulls, Darby had told her, when Cane stayed sober for a long-enough stretch. He was sort of intimidating to Morie, but he had a live-wire personality and he could charm buyers.

Dalton, whom they called, for some reason, Tank, was the marketing specialist. He drew up brochures for the production sales, traveled to
conferences and conventions, attended political-action committee meetings for the county and state and even national cattlemen's associations, and devoted himself to publicizing the ranch's prize cattle. He worked tirelessly. But he was a haunted man, and it showed.

Mallory was the boss. He made all the big decisions, although he was democratic enough to give his brothers a voice. They were all opinionated. Darby said it was genetic; their parents had been the same.

Morie understood that. Her dad was one of the most opinionated men she'd ever known. Her mother was gentle and sweet, although she had a temper. Life at home had always been interesting. It was just that Morie had become an entrée for any money-hungry bachelor looking for financial stability. Somewhere there must be a man who'd want her for what she was, not what she had.

She rode the fence line, looking for breaks. It was one of the important chores around the ranch. A fence that was down invited cattle to cross over onto public lands, or even onto the long two-lane state highway that ran beside the ranch. One cow in the road could cause an accident that would result in a crippling lawsuit for the brothers.

Darby had been vocal about the sue-everybody mentality that had taken over the country in recent years. He told Morie that in his day, attor
neys were held to a higher standard of behavior and weren't even allowed to advertise their services. Nobody had sued anybody that he knew of, when he was a boy. Now people sued over everything. He had little respect for the profession today. Morie had defended it. Her uncle was a superior court judge who'd been a practicing attorney for many years. He was honest to a fault and went out of his way to help people who'd been wronged and didn't have money for an attorney. Darby had conceded that perhaps there were some good lawyers. But he added that frivolous lawsuits were going to end civilization as it stood. She just smiled and went on about her business. They could agree to disagree. After all, tolerance was what made life bearable.

She halted at the creek long enough to let her gelding have a drink. She adjusted her earphones so that she could listen to Mark Mancina's exquisite soundtrack for the motion picture
August Rush.
There was an organ solo that sent chills of delight down her spine. She got the same feeling listening to Bach's Toccata and Fugue in D Minor played on a pipe organ. Music was a big part of her life. She could play classical piano, but she was rusty. College had robbed her of practice time. She'd noticed a big grand piano in the Kirks' living room. She wondered which of the brothers played. She'd never asked.

She stopped at a stretch of fence where the last snow-and-ice storm had brought a limb down. The ice was gone, but the limb was still resting on the fence, bending it down so that cattle could have walked over it. The limb was a big one, but she was strong. She dismounted, buttoned her coat pocket so that the iPod wouldn't fall out and went at the limb.

She had to break pieces off before she could ease it onto the ground. In the process, one of the sharp branches cut her cheek. She muttered as she felt blood on her fingers when she touched it. Well, it would mend.

She pushed the limb onto the ground with a grimace, but she was glad to see that the fence wasn't damaged, only a little bent from the collision. She wrangled it back into some sort of order and made a note on the iPod so that she could report its location to the brothers with the GPS device she always carried with her. They were pretty high-tech for a low-budget operation, she thought. They had laptops that they used during roundup to coordinate all the activity.

She paused as the crescendo built on the soundtrack, and closed her eyes to savor it. How wonderful it must be, she thought, to be a composer and be able to write scores that touched the very heart and soul of listeners. She was musical, but she had no such talent. She didn't compose.
She only interpreted the music of others when she played the piano or, less frequently, the guitar.

“Hurt yourself?” A deep, drawling voice came from behind.

She whirled, her heart racing, her eyes wide and shocked as she faced a stranger standing a few feet away. She looked like a doe in the sights of a hunter.

He was tall and lean, with dark eyes and hair under a wide-brimmed hat, wearing jeans and a weather-beaten black hat. He was smiling.

“Mr. Kirk,” she stammered, as she finally recognized Dalton Kirk. She hadn't seen him often. He wasn't as familiar to her as Mallory was. “Sorry, I wasn't paying attention…”

He reached out and took one of the earphones, pursing his sensual lips as he listened. He handed it back.
“August Rush,”
he said.

Her eyebrows shot up. “You know the score?”

He smiled at her surprise. “Yes. It's one of my own favorites, especially that pipe-organ solo.”

“That's my favorite, too,” she agreed.

He glanced at the fence. “Make a note of the coordinates so we can replace that section of fence, will you?” he asked. “It will keep the cattle in for now, but not for long.”

“I already did,” she confirmed. She was still catching her breath.

“There's an escaped convict out here some
where,” he told her. “I don't think he's guilty, but he's desperate. I love music as much as anybody, but there's a time and place for listening to it, and this isn't it. If I'd been that man, and desperate enough to shoot somebody or take a hostage, you'd be dead or taken away by now.”

She'd just realized that. She nodded.

“Now you see why it's against the law to listen with earphones when you're driving,” he said. “You couldn't hear a siren with those on.” He indicated the earphones.

“Yes. I mean, yes, sir.”

He cocked his head. His dark eyes twinkled. “Call me Tank. Everybody does.”

“Why?” she blurted out.

“We were facing down an Iraqi tank during the invasion of Iraq,” he told her, “and we were taking substantial damage. We lost comms with the artillery unit that was covering us and we didn't have an antitank weapon with us.” He shrugged. “I waded in with a grenade and the crew surrendered. Ever since, I've been Tank.”

She laughed. He wasn't as intimidating as he'd once seemed.

“So keep those earphones in your pocket and listen to music when it's a little safer, will you?”

“I will,” she promised, and put away the iPod.

He mounted the black gelding she hadn't heard
approaching and rode closer. “That thing isn't a phone, is it?”

“No, sir.”

“Do you carry a cell phone?” he added, and his lean, strong face was solemn.

She pulled a little emergency one out of her pocket and showed it to him. “It's just for 911 calls, but it would do the job.”

“It wouldn't. We'll get you one. It's essential here. I'll tell Darby—he'll arrange it for you.”

“Thanks,” she said, surprised. She should have been using her own phone, but she thought it might give her away. It was one of the very expensive models. The one she was carrying looked much more like something a poor cowgirl would own.

“Oh, we're nice,” he told her with a straight face. “We have sterling characters, we never curse or complain, we're always easy to get along with….” He stopped because she was muffling laughter.

“Just because Cane can turn the air blue, and Mallory throws things is no reason to think we're not easygoing,” he instructed.

“Yes, sir. I'll remember that.”

He laughed. “If you need anything, you call,” he said. “Keep your eyes open. The man who escaped was charged with killing a man in cold blood,” he added solemnly. “Joe Bascomb. He was with me in Iraq. But desperate men can do desperate
things. He might hurt a stranger, even a woman, if he thought she might turn him in to the law. He's sworn he'll never go back to jail.” His eyes were sad. “I never thought he'd run. I'm sure he didn't mean to kill the other man, if in fact he did. But they're bound and determined to catch him, and he's determined not to be caught. So you watch your back.”

“I'll be more careful.”

“Please do. Good help is hard to find.” He tipped his hat, and rode away.

Morie breathed a sigh of relief and got back on her horse.

T
HERE WAS SOME BIG SHINDIG
planned for the following Friday, Morie heard. The housekeeper, Mavie Taylor, was vocal about the food the brothers wanted prepared for it.

“I can't make canapés,” she groaned, pushing back a graying strand of hair that had escaped its bun. She propped her hands on her thin hips and glowered. “How am I supposed to come up with things like that when all they ever want is steak and potatoes?”

“Listen, canapés are easy,” Morie said gently. “You can take a cocktail sausage and wrap it in bacon, secure it with a toothpick and bake it.” She gave the temperature setting and cooking time. “Then you can make little cucumber sandwiches cut into triangles, tea cakes, cheese straws…”

“Wait a minute.” She was writing frantically on a pad. “What else?”

Morie glowed. It was the first time the acid-tongued housekeeper had ever said anything halfway pleasant to her. She named several other
small, easily prepared snacks that would be recognizable to any social animal as a canapé.

“How do you know all this?” the woman asked finally, and suspiciously.

“Last ranch I worked at, I had to help in the kitchen,” Morie said, and it was no lie. She often helped Shelby when company was coming.

“This is nice,” she replied. She tried to smile. It didn't quite work. Those facial muscles didn't get much exercise. “Thanks,” she added stiffly.

Morie grinned. “You're welcome.”

Her small eyes narrowed. “Okay, what about table linen and stuff?”

“Do you have a selection of those?”

“I hope so.” The harassed woman sighed. “I only came to work here a couple of weeks before you did. I've never had to cook for a party and I don't have a clue about place settings. I'm no high-society chef! I mean, look at me!” she exclaimed, indicating her sweatpants and T-shirt that read Give Chickens the Vote!

Morie tried not to giggle. She'd never credited the Kirks' venomous housekeeper with a sense of humor. Perhaps she'd misjudged the woman.

“I cooked for a bunkhouse crew before this,” Mavie muttered. “The brothers knew it…I told them so. Now here they come wanting me to cook for visiting politicians from Washington and figure out how to put priceless china and delicate
crystal and silver utensils in some sort of recognizable pattern on an antique linen tablecloth!”

“It's all right,” Morie said. “I'll help.”

She blinked. “You will? They won't like it.” She nodded toward the distant living room.

“They won't know,” she promised.

The housekeeper shifted nervously. “Okay. Thanks. That Bruner woman's always in here complaining about how I cook,” she added sourly.

“That's all right, she's always complaining about how I dress.”

The other woman's eyes actually twinkled. Nothing made friends like a common enemy. “She thinks I'm not capable of catering a party. She wants to hire one of her society friends and let Mallory pay her a fortune to do it.”

“We'll show her,” Morie said.

There was a chuckle. “Okay. I'm game. What's next?”

 

M
ORIE SPENT A VERY ENJOYABLE
hour of her free time laying out a menu for Mavie and diagramming the placement of the silver and crystal on the tablecloth. She advised buying and using a transparent plastic cover over the antique tablecloth to preserve it from spills of red wine, which, the housekeeper groaned, the brothers preferred.

“They'll never let me do that.” She sighed.

“Well, I suppose not,” Morie replied, trying to imagine her mother, that superhostess, putting plastic on her own priceless imported linen. “And I suppose we can find a dry cleaner who can get out stains if they're fresh.”

“I don't guess I can wear sweats to serve at table,” Mavie groaned.

“You could hire a caterer” came the suggestion.

“Nearest caterer I know of is in Jackson, ninety miles away,” the housekeeper said. “Think they'll spring to fly him and his staff down here?”

Morie chuckled. No, not in the current economic environment. “Guess not.”

“Then we'll have to manage.” She frowned. “I do have one passable dress. I guess it will still fit. And I can get a couple of the cowboys' wives to come and help. But I don't know how to serve anything.”

“I do,” Morie said gently. “I'll coach you and the wives who help.”

Mavie cocked her head. Her blue eyes narrowed. “You're not quite what you seem, are you?”

Morie tried to look innocent. “I just cooked for a big ranch,” she replied.

The housekeeper pursed her lips. “Okay. If you say so.”

Morie grinned. “I do. So, let's talk about entrées!”

 

M
ALLORY CAME IN WHILE
Morie was sipping a cup of coffee with Mavie after their preparations.

Morie looked up, disturbed, when Mallory stared at her pointedly.

“It's my afternoon off,” she blurted.

His thick eyebrows lifted. “Did I say anything?”

“You were thinking it,” she shot back.

“Hard worker and reads minds.” Mallory nodded. “Nice combination.”

“She gave me some tips on canapés for that high-society party you're making me cook for,” Mavie grumbled, glaring at him. “Never cooked for any darn politicians. I don't like politicians.” She frowned. “I wonder what hemlock looks like…?”

“You stop that,” Mallory said at once. “We're feeding them so we can push some agendas their way. We need a sympathetic ear in Washington for the cattlemen's lobby.”

“They should keep buffalo in the park where they belong instead of letting them wander onto private land and infect cattle with brucellosis,” Morie muttered. “And people who don't live here shouldn't make policy for people who do. They're trying to force out all the independent ranchers and farmers, it seems to me.”

Mallory pulled up a chair and sat down. “Exactly,” he said. “Mavie, can I have coffee, please?”

“Sure thing, boss.” She jumped up to make more.

“Another thing is this biofuel,” Mallory said. “Sure, it's good tech. It will make the environment better. We're already using wind and sun for power, even methane from animal waste. But we're growing so much corn for fuel that we're risking precious food stores. We've gone to natural, native grasses to feed our cattle because corn prices are killing our budget.”

“Grass fed is better,” Morie replied. “Especially for consumers who want lean cuts of beef.”

He glowered at her. “We don't run beef cattle.”

“You run herd bulls,” she pointed out. “Same end result. You want a bull who breeds leaner beef calves.”

Mallory shifted uncomfortably. “We don't raise veal.”

“Neither do—” She stopped abruptly. She was about to say “we,” because her father wouldn't raise it, either. “Neither do a lot of ranchers. You must have a good model for your breeding program.”

“We do. I studied animal husbandry in school,” he said. “I learned how to tweak the genetics of cattle to breed for certain traits.”

“Like lower birth weight in calves and leaner conformation.”

“Yes. And enlarged…” He stopped in midsen
tence and seemed uncomfortable. “Well, for larger, uh, seed storage in herd bulls.”

She had to bite her tongue to keep from bursting out laughing. It was a common reference among cattlemen, but he was uncomfortable using the term with her. He was very old-world. She didn't laugh. He was protecting her, in a sense. She shouldn't like it. But she did.

He was studying her with open curiosity. “You know a lot about the cattle business.”

“I pick up a lot, working ranches,” she said. “I always listened when the boss talked about improving his herd.”

“Was he a good boss?”

“Oh, yes,” she said. Her dad had a very low turnover in his employees. He was fair to them, made sure they had insurance and every other benefit he could give them.

“Why did you leave, then?” he asked.

She shifted. Had to walk a careful line on this one, she thought. “I had a little trouble with an admirer,” she said finally. It was true. The man hadn't been a ranch hand, but she insinuated that he was.

Mallory's eyes narrowed. “That won't ever happen here. You have problems with any of the cowboys, you just tell me. I'll handle it.”

She beamed. “Thanks.”

“No problem. Thanks, Mavie,” he added when
the housekeeper put a cup of black coffee with just a little cream at his hand. “You make the best coffee in Wyoming.”

“You're only saying that because you want an apple pie for supper.”

His eyebrows shot up. “Hell, am I that obvious?”

“Absolutely,” she declared.

He shrugged. “I love apple pie.”

“I noticed. I suppose I can peel apples and listen while you two talk cattle,” she said, and got up to retrieve fresh apples from the counter along with a big bowl and a paring knife.

“Uh, about men,” Morie said, looking for an opening.

He scowled. “You are having problems here!”

“No!” She swallowed. “No, I'm not. There's this nice man in town who wants to go out with me. His father runs the local tractor store—”

“No!”

She gaped at him.

“Clark Edmondson has a bad reputation locally,” he continued curtly. “He took out one of Jack Corrie's daughters and deserted her at a country bar when she wouldn't make out with him in his car. He was pretty drunk at the time.”

“We're not going to a bar,” she stammered uncharacteristically, “just to a movie in town.”

He cocked his head. “What movie?”

“That cartoon one, about the chameleon. The lizard Western.”

“Actually, that one's pretty good. I would have thought he'd prefer the werewolf movie, though.”

She shifted in her chair. “That's the first one he suggested. I don't like gore. The reviewers said it had some in it, and it got bad reviews.”

“You believe reviewers know what they're talking about?” he queried with a twinkle in his eyes. “They don't buy books or movie tickets, you know. They're just average people with average opinions. One opinion doesn't make or break a sale in the entertainment business.”

“I never thought of it like that.”

“I don't read reviews. I look at what a book is about, or a movie, and make up my own mind whether to read it or see it in a theater. In fact, the werewolf movie had exquisite cinematography and some of the best CGI I've seen in a long time. I liked it, especially that gorgeous blonde girl in that red, red cape in the white, snowy background,” he recalled. “Film reviewers. What do they know?” he scoffed.

“Opinionated, is what he is,” Mavie said from beside them, where she sat peeling apples. “And it was Bill Duvall who told you about the Corrie girl. He's sweet on her and she doesn't like Clark, so you take that into account when you hear the story.” She looked down at her hands working on
an apple. “Nothing wrong with Clark, except he's flighty. You don't understand flighty, because all three of you are rock-solid sort of people, full of opinions and attitude.”

Mallory let out a short laugh as he sipped coffee. “I don't have an attitude.”

“Oh, yes, you do,” the housekeeper shot back.

He shrugged. “Maybe I do.” He glanced at Morie and his eyes narrowed. “You take your cell phone with you, and if Clark gets out of hand, you call. Got that?”

“Oh…okay.” It was like being back at home. He sounded just like her dad did when she'd dated a boy he didn't know in high school. “He wanted to take me to the movies on Saturday, but I'm supposed to be watching calving….”

“I'll get one of the part-timers to come in and cover for you. This time,” he added curtly. “Don't expect concessions. We can't afford them.”

She flushed. “Yes, sir. Thanks.”

“She's over twenty-one, boss,” Mavie said drily.

“She works for me,” he replied. “I'm responsible for every hire I've got. Some more than others.” He looked pointedly at Morie, and he didn't look away.

It was like being caught by a live wire when she met that searching stare. Her heart kicked into high gear. Her breath caught in her throat. She felt the intensity of the look right down to her toes.
She'd never felt such a surge of pleasure in her whole life.

Mallory appeared to forcibly drag his eyes away. He sipped coffee. “Well, you can go, but you be careful. I still think he's a risk. But it's your life.”

“Yes, it is,” she replied. Her throat felt tight, and she was flushed. She got to her feet. “Thanks for the coffee,” she told the housekeeper. “It's time for me to get to work.”

“Don't fall in the dipping pool,” Mallory said with a straight face, but his dark eyes twinkled in a way that was new and exciting.

“Yes, sir, boss,” she replied. She smiled and turned to move quickly out of the room before she embarrassed herself by staring at him. She wondered how she was going to conceal the sudden new delight she got from looking at her boss.

 

S
HE HAD A NICE PAIR OF SLACKS
and a pink-and-lime embroidered sweater. She wore those for her date, and let her long hair down. She brushed it until it shone. It was thick and black and beautiful, like her mother's. When she looked in the mirror, she saw many traces of her mother in her own face. She wasn't beautiful, but she wasn't plain, either. She had the same elfin features that had taken Shelby Kane Brannt to such fame in her modeling days. And Morie's grandmother, Maria Kane,
had been a motion-picture star, quite famous for her acting ability. Morie hadn't inherited that trait. Her one taste of theater in college had convinced her that she was never meant for the stage.