Chapter Twelve

Priscilla’s spirits soared for days after discovering that Dusty was jealous of Reverend Allen in spite of the fact that she saw very little of Dusty. She was beginning to suspect that he was deliberately avoiding her, and that made her even happier until Stella brought her back down to earth with the news that Dusty was going up the trail with the cattle drive and would probably be gone three months or more. That did not sound to Priscilla like the action of a man in love, and for once even Stella was stumped for a theory. Stella did point out, however, that after a trail drive, a man was mighty anxious for female company and might be anxious enough to forget a lot of silly notions he might have had in his head. Priscilla could only hope that was true, and the more she thought of it, the more convinced she became that perhaps it was all for the best. The cattle drive and the separation would give them what they both needed: a fresh start.

The weeks of the roundup passed quickly, and Priscilla fell more deeply in love with Texas as the April breezes blew. She saw the men only briefly since they camped out most nights wherever they happened to be working stock. Priscilla took the opportunity of Dusty’s absence to ride Lady daily. She had ridden the mare before, but not often since she had not wanted to seem to be taking advantage. Now Dusty had no time for the horse and he could not use her to work the cattle since a mare was too disruptive to a remuda, so Priscilla rode her and groomed her with the love and enthusiasm she would gladly have spent on the horse’s master, if he had allowed it. Another motive was to prove to him that she would take good care of the mare while he was gone so he would not begrudge her the use of the horse. If Dusty knew of or appreciated her care of Lady, she never knew, since she had not seen him to speak to since the roundup had begun. In fact, she had become convinced that he was avoiding her and had to content herself with the thought that he must indeed be afraid of her.

From dinner table conversation, Priscilla knew that the roundup was almost complete and Ben Steele expected to send about 2500 of his own cattle and another 250 of Dusty’s up the trail to Dodge City. Priscilla had been surprised to learn that Dusty actually owned cattle, too, and that even Curly had started a small herd of his own, taking stock from Ben in lieu of part of his pay. Emotions were running high around the Steele home—excitement over the adventure of the drive, concern for the safety of the men who would be involved, and interest in the price of beef—but Priscilla was completely unprepared for the mood she found the family in when she appeared for Sunday morning breakfast.

The dining room, usually boisterously loud with the clatter of dishes and the voices of children, was strangely silent. A deathlike pall hung over the group assembled there. Stella and George would not meet her eyes, Ruth j sat stonily, her eyes red from crying, and the younger girls wept openly. Young Ben sat staring at his plate, obviously wanting to join the girls in weeping but feeling the burden of his manhood upon him. Ben Steele sat looking as if catastrophe had struck, and even the younger children were oddly subdued.

No one spoke, so Priscilla was obliged to ask, fearfully, “What has happened?” although she did not really want to know.

For a long time no one spoke, the adults exchanging glances as if mutely trying to decide who should break the news. At last Stella spoke up. “Last night Dusty rode in to tell Daddy they’re almost ready to start.” Stella paused.

“That can’t be all,” Priscilla insisted.

Suddenly, Ruth made a small, strangled sound and rushed from the table. No one seemed to notice. Stella continued, “Dusty also told Daddy that after he gets the herd sold, he’s quittin’, goin’ on from there to find a place where he can take up ranchin’ on his own. He’s never comin’ back here.”

Stella spoke the words as kindly as she could, but each one was like a knife driven into Priscilla’s vitals. Never coming back! She would never see him again. Never. The word numbed her brain, and she sank into the chair, thankful that the pain was too great for tears, and that she would not make a fool of herself in front of everyone. She sat woodenly in front of her empty plate, making no pretense at eating, until the others were ready to leave the table, and then she found that she had to face an ordeal that would test her self-control to its limits. Ben had asked Dusty to stay at the ranch all day, to go with them to church and have Sunday dinner with them as a last farewell. Judging from the mood of the family, it would not be a joyous occasion.

Dusty, who had taken refuge somewhere during breakfast, brought the wagon around for the women. He was as grim faced as everyone else and if he did not look directly at Priscilla, he did not look directly at anyone else, either, obviously feeling the pain of separation from those who had loved him like a son and a brother. If he felt any other pain, Priscilla could not tell and chose not to study him for signs of it. Instead, she contrived to sit in the back of the wagon, as far from Dusty as possible, for the long drive to church. She heard not one word of the sermon that morning, but when Reverend Allen prayed long and loud for the lost lambs who had wandered far from the fold, there were no dry eyes in the Steele’s pew.

Dinner was even worse, with the three men forcing themselves to be pleasant while the women sat in brooding silence.

Finally, even George could stand it no longer. “Dammit, women, you should be glad for the boy! He’s worked hard for this chance. He has a right to expect some enthusiasm from us. We’re the only family he has.”

“Don’t blame them, George,” said Dusty solemnly. He had failed to realize that in leaving Priscilla, he would also be leaving the Steeles, and only today had he realized the full implications of his act. “I know how they feel. I feel just as bad leavin’ them. Like you said, you all are my family. But it ain’t like I’m dyin’! Shoot, soon’s I get things goin’ good, I’ll come back for a visit so’s you can see how prosperous I am. Better yet, get Ol’ Ben to pack you all up and bring you to see me.”

Dusty’s forced cheerfulness soothed no one, and once again Ruth left the table abruptly. This time Priscilla followed, offering to comfort her but finally, in the privacy of the girl’s room, indulging herself in a few tears, also. While they were gone, the dinner party broke up to mope in various parts of the house. The men retired to Ben’s office where they did not have to endure the women’s sad faces. Priscilla wandered outside, alone, too depressed to sit with Stella and Ruth. When she reached the barn, she realized with a pang that Dusty would be taking Lady with him. During the past weeks she had come to love that horse. Impulsively, she slipped into the barn and went to Lady’s stall. The mare came eagerly to her and whinnied expectantly. Priscilla stroked her nose and caressed her neck, speaking to her softly. She was so engrossed that she did not notice Dusty had come in until he spoke.

“Reckon she’ll miss you.” He had had no intention of speaking to her at all, had intended to slip out of the barn again when he had seen her there, but somehow, he could not force himself. After all, after today, he’d never have another chance to see her again.

“I’ll miss her, too.” Priscilla could not bear to look at him, so she continued to pat Lady. Then she had an inspiration. “Would you consider selling her? I could pay you what she’s worth. I have some money my father left me.”

It was too dark in the shadowed barn to read his expression. “I could never sell Lady,” he protested. “I might...” He caught himself. He had almost offered to give her the horse. It was an impulse born of his feelings for her and the pain he was enduring, but what would she think? That he was paying her off. She would be insulted. Besides, he was selfish enough to want to keep Lady as a reminder of Priscilla, the only one he would ever have. “No,” he said, half to himself. “I could never sell Lady.”

To turn and walk away seemed so final that Priscilla could not force herself to do it. Impulsively, she asked, “May I ride her once more?”

“Shore,” Dusty replied quickly, unreasonably glad to be able to please her in something. “Mind if I tag along?” he heard himself say as he slapped a saddle on Lady’s back. It came as no surprise that he wanted to, but to actually say it...

Priscilla did mind, but she reasoned that this would be her last encounter with him and her last chance to solve the mystery that was Dusty Rhoades, if that were possible.

They rode in silence for a while, each feeling the enormity of loss, each wondering how deeply affected the other was. At last Priscilla gathered her courage and managed to decide on an inoffensive way to begin what she felt might be the most important conversation of her life.

“I can certainly understand how you feel, leaving the only home you’ve ever known,” she began. “It helps if you have something that you are working toward, though. I know that was what helped me.” She stopped to study his face, but he was staring rigidly ahead, almost as if he had not heard her. “Of course, I did not have so many people loving me and wanting me to stay,” she continued, hoping he would at least wonder if she fell into that category.

“What about all them beaus you had back east?” he asked with such sudden, unexplained anger that Priscilla jumped. “They must’ve wanted you to stay.”

Priscilla blinked. Was that bitterness she heard underneath the anger? Emboldened by the thought, she replied, “What about you? From what I hear, you’ll be leaving a string of broken hearts all across Texas.” Seeing she had shocked him gave her the courage to ask the question that had been haunting her all day. “Come now, isn’t there some pretty girl you’d like to pack up on your saddle and carry off to Kansas with you?” She had tried to sound playful, but there was a definite edge in her voice.

Dusty felt that edge. She just couldn’t let him go without sticking him one last time, could she? Now she wanted him to admit how difficult it was to leave her so she could have the last laugh. He cast her a considering look. Their horses were walking slowly, side by side, and he checked his mount, waiting until she had stopped, too, and as they sat not an arm’s length from each other, he said very quietly, “Even if there were, Miss Bedford, I wouldn’t do it.”

Priscilla searched his face. She was close, so close, if only she could keep him talking. “Why not?” she asked with such intense curiosity that he was compelled to answer.

“A cattle drive’s no fit place for a woman,” he explained, a little uncertain exactly why he wanted her to understand. “After that’s over, I gotta head out into some pretty wild country, without even knowin’ where I’m goin’ and nothin’ there when I get there.”

Was that all? Could that be his only reason? “The right girl would wait for you,” she insisted. Could he tell that she was that girl—could he read it in her eyes?

His confusion was obvious. What was she getting at? Did she want him to ask her to wait so she could turn him down, or worse yet, so she could agree and then jilt him when he had gone? He would not give her the chance. “You’re talkin’ three, maybe even five years of waitin’, Miss Bedford,” he informed her with just a hint of sarcasm. “No girl would wait that long. No man would ask her to.” With that he turned his pony’s head and wheeled around, heading back toward the ranch. “Time we was gettin’ back,” he said brusquely and kicked his horse into a trot. .

Priscilla stared after him for a moment before urging Lady to follow him. She had to face the truth and it was not a pleasant prospect. Regardless of how Dusty felt about her, and she still believed he cared for her in some way, he had no intention of including her in his life. How did a woman fight such logic? How did she convince him that his arguments were foolish? And were they? To him, she had to admit, they were not, and she felt unequal to the task of showing him otherwise.

When they came to the fork in the road, Priscilla took the turn to the schoolhouse, and after a moment’s hesitation, Dusty followed her. When they reached the schoolyard, she dismounted before he could help her. She did not trust herself in his hands. She stood with her back to him, taking one long, last look at Lady. The horse seemed to sense her mood and nuzzled her affectionately. Priscilla’s eyes blurred and she buried her face in Lady’s neck until she could fight back the tears. He would not see her cry. With an iron will she composed herself, and, squaring her shoulders, she turned to face him, forcing her lips into a smile.

“Well, I guess this is goodbye,” she said as lightly as she could, extending her hand to him. It seemed a prosaic ending for their tumultuous relationship, but she could think of nothing else to do.

He took her small, soft hand in his large calloused one. Never had he seen her more lovely, her hair windblown, her cheeks flushed, her eyes bright with unshed tears. He knew she had been trying not to cry. Were those tears for him or the horse? Not that it mattered. This would be the last time he would ever see her. The last time. Ahead of him stretched hundreds, maybe thousands of miles—dangerous, difficult, lonely. Lonely campfires with other lonely men. How long before he would even see another woman, let alone a woman like this? When would he stand with one, alone like this, holding her hand, the sun streaming down on her hair, making it shine like a halo, her eyes glistening? He cursed the fate that had brought her here, and he cursed himself for falling in love with a woman he could never have. The injustice of it infuriated him, quickly, without warning, and he wanted revenge, or at least a token of it. Well, why not? he asked himself, and before an answer came, while he still held her right hand, he slipped his left arm around her waist. Pulling her to him, he kissed her soundly on the mouth.

Before she could resist or assist, he released her and for a moment she stood too stunned to move. How dare he! Of all the rotten...! Cold fury canceled every other emotion she had felt before and she threw back her left hand to slap his insolent face. He still held her right one in a convulsive grip. Then she froze. He was not insolent.

He was braced, expecting her blow, desiring it to cancel out his shameless act.

He flinched as her hand came swiftly up, but instead of striking him, she wrapped her arm around his neck and pulling him toward her with the hand she still held, she kissed him with all the fire and passion of a woman who wanted to be remembered with regret. Although his mind was completely stunned, his body took only a moment to respond and the next instant he held her in a bone-crushing embrace. How could he have forgotten what she felt like, how she tasted, how she smelled, how she molded her softness to him so eagerly, how intoxicating her essence could be?

Priscilla surrendered to his arms, her body also remembering past delights, and lost herself in the world of sensation. She had been right! He did care for her! His coldness had been all an act, a lie to somehow protect her from what she no longer remembered or cared to remember. She only knew, with some primal instinct, that this was the way to subdue him, to conquer him, to overcome his silly notions, and she returned his kiss with a fervor that inflamed them both.

Dusty’s hands explored her body, rediscovering half-forgotten wonders, marveling at the way she seemed to melt beneath his touch, but even as he did so, he heard some soft warning voice, deep in his brain, repeating an alarm. What had he to fear? he wondered vaguely as he found the sweet mounds of her breasts thrusting eagerly into his palms.

Priscilla curved into his fevered touch, savoring the two-fold ecstasy that came from his body and from her knowledge that when he took her this time he would never leave her again. She would force him to confess his love, use her woman’s body to seduce from him the truth, and then he would be hers, completely.

“Oh, Pris, I...” he murmured drunkenly against her mouth, almost allowing the betraying words to escape but stopping himself just in time.

“What, my darling, what?” she whispered back, her breath sweet honey against his lips.

“I...” he began, but forgot the rest as she drew herself from his embrace and began backing away from him. Fascinated, he stared at her slowly retreating figure, trying to figure out why she was moving away when he knew from her eyes that she wanted to be close. Before his mind could decide, his body had begun instinctively to follow, one sure step and then another, and then she was turning, throwing one sassy look over one beckoning shoulder and running toward the schoolhouse. He was right behind her, his long legs easily overtaking her, long arms reaching out for her, but she twisted free, her tinkling laugh taunting him to try again, but before he could, she threw open the schoolhouse door and fled I inside. He might have stopped had not her tantalizing laughter rung out again to bring him stumbling into her room.

He paused a moment, his breath rasping in the room’s stillness, seeking her in the sudden dimness, and then he found her, standing on the other side of the room’s partition, her back to the bed’s iron footrest, hands clinging to the metal as if for support, her breasts rising and falling rapidly in the aftermath of her flight. He watched that rise and fall as one hypnotized, hardly aware that he was moving toward her, closer, ever closer, until her hands reached out and touched him. That touch released a torrent of emotions in him that seemed to drown them both as he crushed her to him in a kiss that had no end.

Priscilla yielded to him in blissful abandon. This was the man she had waited for, the moment she had waited for all of her life, and she gloried in it, gloried in the feel of him, the touch of him, his lips, his hands as he worked feverishly to get to her, to find her beneath all those layers and layers of cotton and silk. She was searching for him, too, pulling and tugging and wrestling with buttons as they tumbled together in a struggling heap upon the bed. Dusty rolled away a moment in a frantic attempt to pull off his boots, but Priscilla drew him back with a tiny cry of protest at such niceties. She wanted him and she would have him now, all of him, she told him with her body and her hands and her urgent kisses.

Unable to deny her, he responded with renewed fervor, devouring the ripe swell of her breasts with his ravenous mouth while his busy hands sought out the secret source of the fire that now raged out of control.

Priscilla moaned in ecstasy as his calloused hands grated over her softness, spreading her gently like the petals of a precious flower, and then in answer to her imploring cry, he filled her, forcing that flower to bloom with such intensity that for a moment Priscilla thought she might not survive such exquisite pleasure.

Dusty, too, doubted his ability to survive as he endured the dual rapture of losing himself in her sweet depths and knowing she was as lost as he. From somewhere, a vague sense of foreboding prodded him, but before he could remember where it came from, it was gone again, lost in the avalanche of sensation that always came with intimate knowledge of Priscilla Bedford.

Priscilla marveled at the splendor of him as she ran her hands over his burning skin and felt the power beneath it. She met each vibrant thrust greedily, joyous in the knowledge that each plunge brought them closer to the unity that she yearned for, the oneness that would win from him the confession that she craved. In anticipation she wrapped her slender legs around him, her still-stocking-clad feet rasping against the denim of the jeans she had given him no time to remove, her restless hands finding the sleekness of his lean flanks, compelling him to join with her, to blend with her, to merge with her. Hungrily, she tasted the salty sheen of his exertions as her mouth explored the brawny expanse of his shoulder while his hands mercilessly tormented the sensitive tips of her breasts, sending tingles down, down into the very core of her, to throb there, throb and pulse and build, larger and larger until she could hold it no longer, bear it no longer, and she let it explode, sending its pulsing waves out and out, convulsing her with blissful fulfillment.

As always, her release triggered his, and he followed her into the oblivion of delight, gasping out his satisfaction, clinging to her until the tremors died away and rationality returned. It returned with harsh clarity, and even as his lips still lingered in the curve of her shoulder, his sated body stiffened and he pulled away, groaning softly. What had become of all his good intentions, all his carefully laid plans? Everything had gone so well, so perfectly! If only he had not kissed her.

He should have known better, should have known that once they started... No use looking back now, though.

It was far too late for that. But not too late, if only he could get away from her. No, that would not be enough, not this time, he knew instinctively. She would expect some sort of commitment and walking away would not be enough. She would not give up so easily, not after giving herself the way she had. No, if he were to get away, to save her from a life he knew was all wrong for her, no matter what she might think, he would have to hurt her, wound her pride with an insult she could never forgive. It was, he decided grimly, the only way.

Priscilla followed him as he rolled away, curling herself against his side, sighing contentedly and staring with fascination at the cloud of red-gold hair that blanketed his chest and which she had been too busy to notice before. He was magnificent, she thought, studying the symmetry of his body, the way his firm flesh molded over the massive bones, and she loved him so, she thought her heart would burst from it. That love shone from her eyes, if only he would turn his head to see it, but he did not.

Instead, he pulled his lips back from his teeth in a parody of a grin. “I’ll shore miss you, darlin’,” he said carelessly, amazing himself with his acting ability. “You really got a way of makin’ a man feel like a man,” he commended her, wrestling with his pants and then swinging his still-booted feet to the floor, ignoring her startled gasp. “Don’t know where I’ll find your match. ‘Course, I reckon it’ll be fun lookin’,” he remarked, scooping up his shirt and rising to his feet.

Priscilla felt as if she had received a stunning blow. Her whole body was paralyzed by the impact of the words she was hearing but was unable to believe. It was impossible! He could not be saying these things, could not mean them, not after the way he had just made love to her. The man she loved could never do such a thing, and yet he was doing it.

Shrugging into his shirt, he turned to face her, looking down with an insolent smirk to where she still lay in a satisfied coil. His affront revitalized her frozen body and in a desperate lunge, she snatched up the edge of the coverlet to conceal her nakedness from his insulting gaze. Shame scorched her face as the pain of betrayal twisted her heart.

“Maybe I will pack you on my saddle, just like you said, an’ take you with me. A piece like you could keep a bedroll mighty warm...” The crack of flesh against flesh halted his speech, a fact for which he could only be grateful as he raised his hand to the cheek she had just slapped. Slowly, he turned his eyes back to where she now crouched like a wild thing, clutching the blanket around her, her eyes blazing with hate and something else.

“You bastard!” she hissed, trembling with rage and shame. “Get out of here! Get out of here!” she shrieked, terrified that he would not leave before she broke down.

Pausing only a moment, savoring that one last look, he swung away, his eyes making one last sweep of the floor to be certain he had left nothing behind, and, discovering his hat where it had fallen beside the door, he retrieved it and made his way hastily from the room. Outside, he took a minute to button his shirt and otherwise make himself presentable while at the same time remembering how she had looked in that last instant, the picture of her face just before he had fled vivid in his mind. She had looked, he realized with stunning certainty, as if she had been hurt. Oh, she had been angry and humiliated, that he had intended, but she had also felt pain. He had seen too much suffering in his life to be mistaken, and the knowledge devastated him. How could he have hurt her so much unless she really loved him? It was inconceivable that she should, and yet he had seen the irrefutable evidence on her face. Inconceivable, and humbling, too, when he realized another awful fact: if she had ever loved him before, she could not love him now, not after the things he had just said to her. That had been his plan, and he admitted reluctantly that he had succeeded all too well in his efforts. She would never so much as speak to him again now, and he could not blame her. Sighing in his victorious defeat, he lifted one hand toward the school in silent salute. “Goodbye, Priscilla,” he whispered. “You win the last hand, my love.” Catching up Lady’s reins, he mounted his own horse and rode slowly away, leading the mare.

Priscilla never heard him leave. As she sobbed into her pillow and cursed the man she loved—still loved in spite of his treachery—with every swear word she knew, she could not help but recall his face, the way it had looked in that last moment. Those sapphire eyes had blazed with a fire that still scorched her, and when the storm of her anger had abated and she could think more rationally, she remembered that look and identified it. With a surge of wonder that brought her head up and stopped her tears instantly, she realized that the look she had found so searing had been raw pain. He had destroyed her with his cruelty, but he had felt the pain himself. It made no sense, yet it was true. She had seen the irrefutable proof, the twisting agony in his eyes. Why? Oh, why? she asked herself over and over, and how could he have done such a thing, said such awful things to her, if he loved her? It was completely unlike the Dusty Rhoades she knew, she decided, and seizing that thought, she worried it like a dog worries a bone, long into the night until at long last she had solved the mystery of Dusty Rhoades.

Dusty rode back to camp that night, promising the Steeles he would check in with them before leaving to say a last goodbye. It seemed easier to postpone it until the time when he would be in a hurry. He did not look forward to it.

The next morning, after an almost sleepless night in which he replayed that final scene with Priscilla over and over in his mind, he drove his men with unnecessary ruthlessness, as if getting the branding and roundup finished were a matter of life and death. He himself did the work of two men, pushing himself to his physical limits so he would not have the time or energy for I contemplation. At their nooning, all the cowboys were commenting on the sudden change in their usually relaxed foreman.

“Hasn’t the boss got a wiggle on himself today,” commented one to Curly.

“Yep. If he’d made this of world, he’d have made it in half a day an’ gone fishin’ in the afternoon—if his horses had held out,” Curly responded. Dusty heard the joke but did not join in the general laughter. His friends sobered immediately. Dusty was usually the first to laugh at himself. Something was wrong with him, very wrong. They exchanged glances and mutely decided to give him a wide berth.

When work resumed, Dusty chose a horse to match his mood, a mustang he had named Cyclone. All of the cowponies were wild to some extent, and most would buck a time or two every time they were ridden, just for meanness. Cyclone, however, had a peculiar trait. Dusty explained it by explaining how the horse was named: “That horse is just like a cyclone. Most times, you don’t need to worry about it, but when it starts acomin’, you just can’t never tell where or what it’s gonna hit.” Cyclone would go for days or even weeks as gentle as a lamb and then, without warning and with slight provocation or no provocation, would begin to buck. A bucking horse was no great challenge to a cowboy, especially one like Dusty Rhoades, but then Cyclone would take off running and nothing would stop him until he decided to quit. Dusty did not mind that either and, in fact, was hoping Cyclone would give him a good run this afternoon.

The horse took the saddle calmly, even though Dusty was intentionally rough, trying to inspire him. He took the rider calmly, too, as if waiting for an opportune moment. When Dusty spurred him, that was the moment. Cyclone leaped and came down stiff legged, then lowered his head and bucked in earnest several times. Both horse and rider knew this was part of the game and Dusty kept his seat firmly. Then he spurred the horse again, and Cyclone took off as if his tail were afire. The pounding, driving ride with the wind searing his face was heaven to a man in Dusty’s frame of mind, but his paradise suddenly faded as he saw that Cyclone was heading straight for a cut bank, twenty feet down to the creek bottom. With iron hands, he tried to slow or turn the horse, but nothing would swerve Cyclone once he had decided on a course. Desperately, the edge of the bank only a few feet ahead, Dusty kicked his feet clear of the stirrups, threw a leg over the horse’s head, and jumped as Cyclone disappeared over the edge of the bank.

Priscilla was having a hard time concentrating on the children’s lessons. Her mind kept wandering back to yesterday and reanalyzing everything that had happened in view of what she had decided about Dusty. He was, she knew, a very complex person, proud and stubborn, and when she charged him, as Stella had, with the fault of thinking himself not good enough for her, she was able to explain every unexplainable bit of his behavior, even down to his cruelty of yesterday. Had he not just told her, in no uncertain terms, that he had nothing to offer a wife, and having nothing to offer would deny himself? Then when she had sought to trap him—how he had sensed that she would never know—he had lashed out at her, driving her away in a manner he knew would free her from him once and for all. It was all so simple, she wondered that she had never figured it out before, but at the same time, she realized the futility of understanding. Knowing what kept him from her would not bring him to her, and in a few days he would be gone from her life forever. Short of riding out to the roundup camp and crawling into Dusty’s bedroll, Priscilla could think of no way to even see him before he left, much less speak to him of such private matters.

Her frustration was unendurable and the schoolroom suddenly seemed stifling. Leaving the children to their memorization, she walked to the open door and breathed deeply of the April air. As she gazed off across the green grass, she saw a strange sight. Watching for a moment, listening intently, she began to hear an even stranger sound. At first she doubted her senses, but then she was certain, and she hurried down the stairs. Scrambling up the hill beside the school, she stood at the barbed wire fence that protected the schoolyard from wandering cattle and stared with wondering eyes at the spectacle approaching.

It was the chuck wagon, not an unusual sight in itself, although it should not have been returning to the ranch at this hour. Aunt Sally was driving and singing at the top of his unmelodious voice a song whose words seemed strangely appropriate to Priscilla’s state of mind:

When you are single

And living at your ease

You can roam this world over

And do as you please;

You can roam this world over

And go where you will

And shyly kiss a pretty girl

And be your own still—

Stranger yet was the din coming from the back of the wagon. It was a man’s voice, shouting, and from what Priscilla could make out above Aunt Sally’s singing, he was cursing abominably. Priscilla waved, trying to get Aunt Sally’s attention as he continued to sing:

But when you are married And living with your wife,

You’ve lost all the joys And comforts of life.

Your wife she will scold you,

Your children will cry,

And that will make papa Look withered and dry.

Come close to the bar, boys,

We’ll drink all around.

We’ll drink to the pure,

If any be found;

We’ll drink to the...

“Whoa!” Aunt Sally had seen her waving and pulled up the wagon within calling distance. “Howdy, ma’am!” he shouted and instantly the cursing from the interior of the wagon ceased.

“Is anything wrong?” Priscilla called.

“Not really, ma’am,” he assured her blandly. “Dusty got hisself hurt an’ I’m just takin’ him back to the ranch.”

“Hurt? Is it serious?” Priscilla tried to sound only mildly concerned, although she was gripped in an icy fear.

“He’s stove up some, hurt his hi... uh... his le... uh... his side,” Aunt Sally struggled to present the facts without offending a lady’s sensibilities. “Don’t look like he broke nothin’ though.”

Priscilla breathed a sigh of relief. “What happened?”

Aunt Sally considered a moment and then his face cracked into one of his rare smiles. “Seems like he fell off his horse, ma’am.” Aunt Sally ignored the muttered imprecation behind him and continued to smile at Priscilla, one of the few women he had any use for. He had never quite forgiven Dusty for the way he had treated her at the dance and Aunt Sally felt justified in adding insult to injury.

“Oh, my,” was all Priscilla could think of to say. She pretended she had not heard Dusty’s muttered curse. ‘Tell Mrs. Wilson I’ll be up as soon as school is out in case she needs any help.”

“Shore will, ma’am,” said Aunt Sally, tipping his hat in an uncharacteristic gesture and driving off.

At the ranch, George helped Aunt Sally get Dusty out of the wagon and into the bedroom of the cabin. They almost had him to the bed when Stella protested.

“He ain’t messin’ up my sheets with them dirty clothes. Help me strip him down.”

With the men’s help, she removed his vest and shirt, leggings, and boots. When she started to pull off his jeans, he groaned, as much from embarrassment as from pain.

“Stella, you don’t leave a man no dignity at all!” he complained.

Stella smiled but continued. When they got him onto the bed, Stella covered him and, walking to the foot of the bed, she commanded, “Unbutton your drawers and I’ll pull them off.”

“What?” he shouted.

“Do it, or I will,” she ordered.

Certain she would, he did as she said. After she had pulled his underwear out from under the covers, she stepped around to the side of the bed.

“Now, throw back them covers and let me see it,” she said, indicating his left hip, the spot where he had landed when he had jumped from Cyclone’s back.

“No,” he protested.

“I understand you’re bashful, but listen here. We ain’t even sent for the doc yet. It’ll be hours, if he’s in town, before he gets here, days if we have to go lookin’ for him. Meantime, I’m the one’s gotta look after you an’ I can’t do nothin’ less I know what’s wrong. Now throw back them covers.”

Dusty looked appealingly to George, who nodded. “Do as she says,” he advised.

Gingerly, Dusty moved the quilt to expose his hip. Raising his head, he saw it himself for the first time and groaned. Stella gave a slight gasp, George shook his head, and Aunt Sally whistled.

Dusty had meant to land on his feet when he jumped from the horse, but somehow he got the angle wrong and landed instead on his hip. Miraculously, nothing was broken as the cowboys had determined before moving him, but he had a glorious bruise, the pain of which was excruciating.

“You’ve done it this time, boy,” Stella observed. “Can you move your leg?”

With great difficulty he proved he could.

“I reckon you’ll live, but we better fetch the doc up here just to make sure everythin’s all right,” Stella decided.

“I’ll go,” George offered. “Aunt Sally has to get back to the men. They’ll be wanting their supper.”

“I reckon Mr. Steele’ll want Curly to take over,” said Aunt Sally.

“I’m sure he will, but check with him before you leave.. He’ll want to know what happened to Dusty,” said George.

Stella had a thought. “Get this boy some whiskey, George. He looks like he needs a drink.”

“Whiskey! Where would I get whiskey, my dear? You know you don’t allow it in the house,” George said innocently.

“Don’t get smart with me. I know you got a bottle hid around here somewheres. But just give him a little. No use gettin’ him drunk.”

After the men left, Stella started gathering Dusty’s discarded clothes. “I’ll get some hot water and we’ll put j some hot rags on it. That should help some,” she said. “Guess this is one trail drive you’ll miss.”

“What?” Dusty repeated. He seemed genuinely shocked. He had not had time to consider the implications of his injury.

“You ain’t goin’ nowhere with that hip, especially not on the back of a horse. I’ll bet the doc keeps you in bed two weeks or more.”

Dusty groaned again. As Stella turned to go, she heard a metallic clink. Looking down, she saw a small gold coin had fallen to the floor. Picking it up, she smiled. “Here’s your gold piece,” she said, placing it on the bedside table. “I’ll put it here since you ain’t got no pockets.” She ignored the unkind things Dusty had to say to her as she left the room.

Priscilla was genuinely worried when she reached the ranch, but Stella’s matter-of-fact explanation of Dusty’s condition calmed her fears. The doctor arrived soon after, and his diagnosis was the same as Stella’s. Ruth and Priscilla had to retreat to the house during his examination because the doctor’s probing inspired Dusty to new extremes of profanity that could be heard clearly in the yard. The doctor also prescribed periodic manipulation of the leg to keep the joint from stiffening, a procedure he showed Stella how to do. Dusty’s protests could be heard even inside the ranch house.

Priscilla and Ruth helped Maria get the family’s supper, and Stella began to prepare a tray for Dusty.

“Well, I ain’t takin’ him his supper,” Stella announced. “I heard enough cussin’ for one day. I declare, I been hearin’ cowboys cuss all my life, but Dusty Rhoades taught me some new ones today. I never seen a man so broke up about bein’ hurt. He was bad enough ‘til he found out he’d miss the trail drive. Then he went plumb crazy. You’d think something terrible was gonna happen to him if he stays here one more day.”

Priscilla considered this. Was he afraid of facing her again? Of course he was, and rightly so, she decided. “Ruth,” Stella said, “you take this tray to Dusty.” Ruth’s eyes grew large and moist. “Not me!” she declared with as much determination as meek Ruth ever mustered.

Stella’s eyes narrowed. “He wasn’t cussin’ at you, too, was he?”

“No,” Ruth said. “Even worse.”

“Worse?” Stella stared in shocked surprise.

“Yes,” Ruth replied miserably. “When I was in there before, I was just trying to be cheerful and nice, and he accused me”—tears were rolling down her face now— “he accused me of bein’ glad he was hurt so he couldn’t leave.” She looked at Priscilla’s and Stella’s amazed faces. “The terrible part is he was right!”

Maybe it was the scare they had had, followed by the great relief that made them giddy. At any rate, when Stella and Priscilla heard the reason for Ruth’s misery, they dissolved in gales of laughter.

“Quiet! He’ll hear you,” cautioned Ruth, and that made them laugh even harder, clinging to each other until the tears began to fall. Finally, too weak to continue, they dried their eyes and with great difficulty composed themselves.

Holding her side, Stella said, “You should have seen his face when I told him to take off his drawers!”

“Stella, you didn’t!” Priscilla gasped, and when Stella nodded, they dissolved again.

A solemn Maria broke their hilarity by her appearance. Catching her breath, Stella eyed Maria and said, “Well, Maria, you can take Mr. Dusty’s dinner to him now.” Maria replied in very rapid Spanish. The words were unintelligible to Priscilla, but she grasped their meaning just the same. Stella pretended to be shocked. “Maria! What would your priest say if he heard you talk like that?” Maria sniffed. “He no take Senor Dusty his dinner either.”

Priscilla started to laugh again until she saw Stella’s blue eyes fixed on her expectantly.

“Oh, no,” she protested.

“The boy’s gotta eat,” insisted Stella. “He won’t cuss and carry on in front of you.” Ruth begged her, Stella pleaded, but it was her own realization that this was just the opportunity she had been waiting for that caused her to consent.

As she started out the door, tray in hand, Stella added casually, “You’ll have to feed him, ‘cause he can’t sit up. It hurts him too much.”

“Stella, you didn’t tell me that!” Priscilla started back in, but Stella closed the door, so she was trapped.

The closer she got to the cabin, the more apprehensive she became, until she remembered that he would be just as nervous about seeing her as she was about seeing him. In fact, he had been in the wrong so he should be more nervous. And what if she were not upset at all about what had happened? That would really throw him, she decided and marched the rest of the way to the cabin with determined steps.

As she opened the cabin door, a contortionist’s trick with the laden tray, she was startled by a bellow from within: “Stella, where’s my supper!”

Priscilla tiptoed through the front room and peeked into the bedroom. Dusty was lying in the bed, and she was shocked by the sight of his bare chest covered with all that red-gold hair. She had never seen another man’s naked chest before and was still not used to Dusty’s, and she almost dropped the tray. With a little shiver she remembered Stella’s remark about removing his drawers, and she had to assume he was completely naked under the covers. Well, now, what would her friends in Philadelphia think about that? She had him just where she wanted him, naked and helpless, and she intended to make the most of it. Drawing a deep breath, she went in. Just as she crossed the threshhold, Dusty again shouted, “Stella!”

Priscilla smiled, and trying not to look too cheerful so as not to be accused of Ruth’s crime, she sang out, “Here’s your supper.”

For a minute he was too stunned to move and then in a frenzy of embarrassment, he snatched the covers up to his chin, eying her with suspicion.

“We’re all so glad you weren’t seriously injured,” Priscilla said sweetly.

Dusty could not believe she was really here. “Where’s Stella?” he demanded.

“Oh, she... what’s that expression? Oh, yes, she had too many irons in the fire and so she asked me to take care of you.” Priscilla set the tray down and pulled a chair up beside the bed and sat down. She shook out the napkin and placed it on the blanket over his chest, picked up the plate and spoon, scooped up some food, and offered it to him.

“Now, eat your supper like a good boy,” she cajoled.

“What in the hell are you doin’?” he snarled, uncertain whether he was more embarrassed at being caught in such a predicament or terrified at her cheerful attitude.

“My goodness,” she chided. “Stella said you wouldn’t swear at me. I’m feeding you. Stella also said it would be too painful for you to sit up and feed yourself.”

“She did, huh? Well, nobody’s feedin’ me like I was a baby,” he said.

“Suit yourself. Can I help you?” she offered.

“No!” he snapped and tried to push himself up to a sitting position. The effort cost him. His face turned white and beads of perspiration popped out on his forehead until finally he fell back in surrender.

His pain brought tears to Priscilla’s eyes. So that he would not see, she quickly jumped up and began to moisten a towel in the water pitcher, blinking back her tears. Then she wiped his face off, and when his breathing returned to normal and the color came back to his cheeks, she again offered him food, and he ate grudgingly and silently.

As she was feeding him, she noticed the gold coin lying on the bedside table. Curious, she picked it up. It looked like a coin except that it was square and worn smooth by much handling. “What’s this?” she asked.

He chewed and swallowed before answering and the irony in his voice was unmistakable. “It’s my lucky gold piece.”

Priscilla barely managed to stifle a smile. When he had finished eating, she asked, “Would you like anything else?”

“No, you can go now.” It was as much an appeal as a statement, but Priscilla was not quite finished.

“It must be a big disappointment to you not to be able to make this trip.” She sounded very sincere, but he refused to look at her or reply. “Yes, it must really be a disappointment, especially after you kissed all the girls goodbye.”

His head jerked around toward her and he stared a moment, his jaw muscles quivering. He had known she would call him. Well, here it was. He would face it like a man. Deliberately, he said, “I only kissed one girl goodbye, and I’m mighty sorry I did.” It was as close as he could come to an apology without betraying himself.

Priscilla feigned surprise. “Why, Mr. Rhoades, it isn’t very gallant for a gentleman to say he is sorry he kissed a lady.”

What did she want, anyway? “I ain’t sorry I kissed her,” he tried again, his voice strained. “I’m just sorry I did it that way.”

“And what way was that?” she asked innocently.

How could he answer a question like that? “A way she didn’t like,” he hedged.

Priscilla considered a moment. “Are you certain she didn’t like it?” She had liked the kiss and the loving. It was the rest of it that had upset her—his lies. “I mean, did you ask her permission? Did she refuse to kiss you? And when you did, did she slap your face or kiss you back? You see, a lady will often slap a man’s face when she would prefer to kiss him back, but she will never kiss him back if she prefers to slap his face.” Since she had done both, she reasoned, that should give him something to think about. Snatching the napkin from his chest, she rose to leave.

Dusty’s mind was reeling. He knew she was trying to tell him something but her meaning was lost in the barrage of words, and he could not understand what she was telling him. Maybe it was George’s whiskey. Now she would leave, and he would never know what she meant. Reaching for her hand, he begged, “Wait!”

What other words he might have spoken were lost forever in a howl of pain, however, for as he reached over to grab her, he inadvertently rolled onto his injured hip. His yell filled the room with people. Obviously, Stella had been vigilant, expecting Dusty to give Priscilla trouble. Priscilla explained briefly that he had apparently moved wrong and then as Stella and the others tried to settle him down, Priscilla slipped out. She would give him time to think over what she had said and draw his own conclusions. Meanwhile, she could be as maddeningly aloof as he.