Sherri Shackelford – The Cattleman Meets His Match (страница 9)
John shook his head. He’d never understand women. Not if he lived to be one hundred and ten years old.
“You ready?” he asked.
She nodded, then swiveled her head left and right, uncertain. She’d said she was a rider. She’d lied. Near as he could tell, she wasn’t sure which side to mount on—a basic skill of horsemanship. In deference to her novice ability, he grasped her around the waist and easily lifted her, surprised by her diminutive weight.
She was slight and delicate, vulnerable and threatening all at the same time. As she sheepishly attempted to cover her ankles, he averted his gaze. The self-conscious action sparked a burst of sorrow in his chest. Someone as proud and brave as Moira deserved a wardrobe full of new dresses that dusted the ground, like a well-heeled lady.
Quelling his wayward emotions, he turned away. To his enormous relief, the livery owner scuffled into the corral, splintering the tense moment.
The older man gestured toward the stables. “What am I supposed to do with that fellow in the stall?”
“Let him out when he wakes up,” John called over his shoulder. “You don’t know anything.”
“True enough,” the man replied. “True enough.”
Moira adjusted her feet in the stirrups and stared down at John. She must have discovered the starch in her spine while his back had been turned. She sat up straighter, her face a stern mask of disapproval. “You better not double-cross us, mister.”
The obvious rebuke in her voice triggered a long-forgotten memory. Years ago at a family wedding he’d joked with Ruth Ann, his on-again, off-again sweetheart, about getting married. She’d looked him straight in the eye, her disappointment in him painfully clear. “You’re too easygoing. I need someone who can take care of me.”
Ruth Ann had married his best friend instead. They had five kids and a pecan farm not far from the Elder ranch.
John had set out to prove himself, and so far he’d come up short. He couldn’t even take care of a herd of cows, let alone this vulnerable woman with her sorrowful, wounded eyes.
“I won’t double-cross you,” he replied evenly.
Moira’s fears weren’t unwarranted, just misdirected. He wasn’t a hero. There was no one riding to the rescue and the sooner he separated from this bunch the better. Before they found out they’d placed their fragile hopes on the wrong man.
There was something else going on here, and he wasn’t the man to sort it out.
A short time later Moira swung off her horse and pain lanced up her legs. She winced, hobbling a short distance. She’d ridden a handful of times before and understood the rudimentary skills, but she wasn’t nearly as confident as she’d let on.
She’d thought she’d fooled John Elder. The sympathy in his perceptive eyes had exposed her mistake. He’d known she was a fraud, and he’d been too polite to voice his observation. She’d paid the price for her bravado. With each step, her untried muscles screamed in protest. She unwittingly sank deeper into John Elder’s coat and inhaled its comforting scent.
Over the years she’d come to associate two smells with men—cloying, headache-inducing cologne and the pungent scent of exertion. John’s coat smelled different, a combination of animal, man and smoldering wood. The unfamiliar mixture was strange and soothing. Despite the cool night, warmth spread through her limbs.
Shadows dotted the horizon, silhouetted against the moonlight. Restless cattle lowed at their arrival and Moira shivered. The glow of a fire marked the center of the camp. A wagon and three oatmeal-colored canvas tents were pitched in an arc around the cheery flames. The orderly sight was reassuring.
When she’d turned eighteen, she’d left the Giffords with little more than the clothes on her back. The gentleman who’d delivered their milk took pity on her and talked his brother-in-law into giving her a job. The brother-in-law owned a hotel and she cooked and cleaned for her room and board. She’d even kept in touch with the delivery boy from the grocer, and he’d promised to tell her if Tommy returned to the Giffords.
She’d never have considered it possible, but she’d traveled the West in style up until now. Moving from train depot to train depot, staying among people, clinging to the last vestiges of civilization, keeping her adventures urbane. Everything beyond the trampled town streets was wild and untapped.
While she drank in her new surroundings, John gathered the girls into a tight circle and spoke, “These cattle aren’t easily spooked, but they’re not used to your voices or your scents. They don’t know you’re a bunch of harmless girls. No loud noises or sudden moves. Stay within fifteen feet of the fire at all times. Once an animal that size stampedes, there’s no stopping.”
Hazel fiddled with the drooping rickrack on her hem. “Can we pet them?”
“Not now,” the cowboy replied without a hint of impatience. “Maybe in the morning. It’s for your own good. I’m keeping you safe.”
Safe. Moira hugged her arms around her chest. They weren’t safe. They’d simply turned down the flame. That didn’t mean they were any better off than they were before. Well, except the odds were better and the doors weren’t locked. They could run if they chose.
John whistled softly and a blur of white and brown padded into view. Moira took an involuntary step backward. A large gold-and-white collie appeared. The dog took its place at John’s heel and tilted its head. The cowboy absently patted the animal’s ears.
The four girls immediately rushed forward.
“He’s so cute!”
“What kind of dog is he?”
“Can he sleep with us tonight?”
John held up his hands. “Easy there. This is a working dog. He’s not real friendly.”
Moira craned her neck for a better view. The “working” dog had rolled onto its back. Its pink tongue lolled out the side of its snout while four paws gently sawed the air.
Darcy snickered. “He looks pretty friendly to me.”
Though the dog appeared harmless, Moira kept her distance. She’d been bitten once and the experience had left her wary. Dogs were unpredictable and temperamental. Best not to get too close.
Hazel rubbed her hand along the puff of fur of the dog’s belly. “What’s her name?”
“His name is Dog.”
“He’s far too handsome for such a plain name,” Sarah declared, rubbing one furry ear between her thumb and forefinger. “I think we should call him Champion.”
“Or Spot,” Hazel added.
Darcy shook her head. “That’s stupid. Why would we call him Spot? He doesn’t have a single spot on him.”
The cowboy pressed two fingers against his temple. “He doesn’t need a name. He’s already got a name.”
“Dog is a silly name,” Hazel grumbled. “Just like Bullhead is a silly name. You’re not very good at naming pets.”
John smothered a grin with one hand. “I’ve been accused of a lot of shortcomings, but I have to say that’s a new one.”
“Then we’ll give him a better name.” Hazel backed away several paces. “Come here, Champion.”
The dog trotted over.
Though the cowboy’s face remained impassive, Moira noted the rise and fall of his chest as he heaved an exasperated breath.
She grudgingly admired John’s even temper. Weak with hunger, her mood swung between rage and despair at a moment’s notice. Right now she’d give anything for a soft bed and a slice of pie. Apple pie. A thick cut of crispy crust. She pictured cinnamon-flecked filling oozing between the tines of her fork. Her mouth watered and she swayed on her feet.
“What’s all this?” another voice called.
Moira snapped to attention. A squat man emerged from the farthest tent. As round as he was tall, his bowed legs were exactly half of his size. A shock of gray hair topped his perfectly round head and his plump face was smooth and cleanly shaven. He adjusted his belt and crossed his arms over his chest.
The cowboy tossed a log onto the fire, sending a shower of sparks drifting skyward. “I’ve brought you some mouths to feed.”
“What happened to the fellows?”
“Gone.”
The abrupt answer piqued Moira’s curiosity.
“Good riddance, I say,” the older man replied. “Not a decent one in the lot.”
John grunted and motioned between the squat man and the girls. “This is Pops. Pops, this is Darcy, Tony, Sarah, and little Hazel. They’ll be staying with us tonight. And they could all use some grub.”
John motioned Moira forward. “And this is Miss O’Mara, she’s in charge of the girls.”
“Well, not exactly, I wouldn’t say—” Moira stuttered over her scattered explanation.
She was the outsider.
No one ever put her in charge of anything, let alone anyone. Her vagabond life from orphan to foundling had shaped her into an expert at dealing with rejection. She spent her time hovering on the fringes, unnoticed. She came and went before anyone had a chance to know her.
Folks didn’t trust loners. Which at times she found annoying, especially considering the people who’d betrayed her trust most egregiously were the ones she’d known best of all.
Pops extended his hand. “Pleased to meet you, Miss.”
Moira offered a quick shake and a weak smile.
“You look fit to eat your shoe leather,” the old man continued. “Let me fetch something that’ll stick to your ribs.”