Chapter Seven
Kara felt one hundred and ten percent better. Yes, someone was definitely trying to nix the drive, but it wasn’t Payne. She just knew that it wasn’t. She had never really thought it was, and yet, somehow it had helped to see him, to feel his love and concern for her. She was so excited for him, so happy that he was getting married.
Whoever was trying to scare them off—and she felt certain that’s all they were trying to do—wouldn’t succeed, because she and Rye were taking the herd to New Mexico, period. She wouldn’t think of those slaughtered beeves anymore. Instead she would concentrate on getting the job done.
With freshened resolve, she pushed everyone ruthlessly. They worked hard, and as a result had the herd culled to three hundred thirty-one head and a quarter of those treated and ear-tagged before nightfall. She slept like a rock and hit the ground running before daylight.
Owing to the previous day’s experience, they had their treatment technique down to a fine science. George and Dean would load the animal into the chute from the rear, George on horseback with a loop ready. Then Dean would press it by shoving on the plunge gate until the cow stuck its head out the opening in the front gate. Once the cow was locked down, Pogo pried open its mouth and ran in a pill pusher, ejecting the thumb-sized tablet far into its throat. At the same time, Kara reached through the spaces in the pipe that made up the walls of the chute and shot an injection, prepared for her by Shoes, into the animal’s flank. Finally Rye stapled a colored and numbered tag into the cow’s ear, and they turned it out into the corral by dropping the front gate, jumping out of the way and letting the animal run over it. Then the front gate went back up, the rear one was opened, and the process started all over again. They were turning out about one per minute and had the whole herd done an hour or so after lunch. It was time to pack for the drive.
Rye had decided the previous day to start posting a guard on the herd. He’d teamed the men in pairs, George and Bord, Pogo and Shoes, himself and Dean, leaving Kara as the odd one out, and assigned them four-hour rotating shifts. Kara spoke to Dayna, and together they presented Rye with an ultimatum. Either they played equal roles or the men could start feeding themselves. Rye looked at the lunch truck, its hot box securely bolted and the key tucked into Dayna’s pocket, and reluctantly relented. He drew up new assignments while munching on pasta salad and tuna sandwiches. The new pairings consisted of George and Bord, Pogo and Dean, Shoes and Dayna, and himself and Kara, working in three-hour shifts. Pogo and Dean had first watch that afternoon.
Rye and Kara were each pulled in a dozen different directions as they organized, reorganized and then attempted to streamline the whole outfit. Ultimately, they had it together. Foodstuffs and cooking utensils went into the motor home generously provided by Dean. Shoes took the extra tack into the farrier’s wagon with him. Rye’s double-cab truck was for personal gear and bedrolls—stored out of the weather in the second cab—and horse feed, which was covered with not one but three tarps in the truck bed. Dayna’s old rattletrap became the water wagon, the bed given over to an enormous collapsible plastic container, which, with the addition of two short lengths of rubber hose, became a cold shower. The motor home would provide the occasional hot shower, if and when they could keep the water heater tank filled. In addition to the two trucks, motor home, and farrier’s wagon, they had two four-horse trailers to pull, allowing them to keep at least half of their remuda rested at all times. That meant they had four drivers and four riders, unless circumstances required them to leapfrog the vehicles in order to put more riders in the field.
Thank God Rye had packed up his and Champ’s household items and shipped them off to his folks in Durango days earlier. That left only a couple hundred minor items, such as extra tires, tools, cleaning supplies, a set of collapsible tables, flashlights, lanterns, medical gear, ropes, pickets, paperwork, maps and even a laptop computer complete with Internet link and fax—again, courtesy of Dean—to be organized and dispersed, along with a strongbox, a goodly sum of cash, a few toys, a radio, a dozen extra pairs of work gloves, an arsenal consisting of a shotgun, a rifle and a handgun licensed in five states and registered to Pogo, two guitars and a harmonica. In addition, they had three cellular phones among them, one belonging to George, one to Dean and the other to Kara.
Packing up a trail drive was only slightly less involved than moving a small city. They were all tired, confused and frustrated, and Kara didn’t appreciate it much when Rye stated disgustedly that he’d survived years on the rodeo circuit with nothing more than a clean change of clothes, a shaving kit, a road map, his saddle, a rope and a picking string. Now he was hitting the road with a whole ranch in tow, he pointed out acerbically, including a woman and a kid.
“Two women,” she reminded him, hurt that he’d just done what so many others had before him.
He seemed hardly to hear her as he was called over to help Shoes decide whether or not it was worth the space and effort to take along a small acetylene torch.
It came their turn to guard the herd just before dinner. Dayna packed them a small feast which they carried out to the holding pens with them. Fried chicken, mountains of mashed potatoes rising above gravy seas, stewed vegetables, chocolate cake, yeast rolls. They gobbled it up with unabashed gusto, as if it had been days instead of hours since they’d last eaten, their plates balanced atop their knees, paper napkins tucked into their collars. Dayna had been extremely generous, and Kara couldn’t finish her portion. Rye polished off her leftovers with barely a pause to catch his breath.
“I hope we packed enough food,” Kara said drily, still slightly miffed at the insult she felt he’d dealt her earlier. “If the rest of the men eat like you, we won’t get to Colorado on what we have.”
“We can always buy extra along the way,” Rye said dismissively, wadding up his napkin and dropping it in the bag Dayna had provided for their refuse. Henceforth, they would be very sensitive to proper disposal. They all understood the necessity of capturing their own trash, of doing as little damage as possible to properties across which they would cross.
“Somebody better get a second job then,” Kara grumbled.
Rye resettled his hat forward and lay back in the dust. They had wedged themselves into the side of the hill, so he was only half reclining at best. “In case you haven’t noticed, neither one of us has a first job, not a paying one, anyway.”
Kara sighed. “True.”
He lifted his hat off his face. “Don’t sound so glum. It’ll work out. Besides, if...when we get this herd to New Mexico, you’ll be all set up for the future.”
“Which leaves only the present to worry about,” she pointed out morosely.
He sat up again, shaking his head. “Women! They’re never happy, no matter what—”
Kara instantly saw red. She slugged him, hard, rocking him sideways. He grabbed his shoulder. “Ow!”
She clapped her hands over her mouth in mock dismay and babbled in a singsong soprano. “Oh-I’m-so-sorry-did-thathurt?” She dropped her hands—and the voice—abruptly shooting to her feet. “You arrogant pig, you deserved that! You have some nerve!”
“Me?” he bellowed, getting up to gape at her, eye level.
“For your information, cretin, all women are not alike! No more than all men are! But you want them to be, oh yes, you do! Well, tough! I’m not the soft, simpering, idiotic, dainty little fragile flower you’re comfortable with!”
“I never said—”
She stuck her face in his, practically spitting her words at him. “I may not be the delicate type, but I do have talents! I ride as well as any man! I rope as well as any man! I think as well as any man! And because I do, I give up everything good about being a woman! I’ll be damned if I’ll let you hang me with everything bad you think a woman is!”
“What are you talking about?”
The very reasonableness of his tone shocked her into temporary silence. She stared at him, feeling her anger slip away. Petulantly she folded her arms beneath her breasts, confused when his gaze dropped to her chest. “I don’t like being lumped into stupid categories.”
He ignored that. “What do you mean you give up everything good about being a woman?”
She rolled her eyes. “Are you so dense that you don’t think I know how you see me?”
“Apparently so.”
She sneered at him. “I’ve been through this a hundred times! I know exactly how you see me.”
He brought his hands to his hips. “Do tell.”
Anger dissolved into mortification. Tears suddenly burned the backs of her eyes, but she’d be hanged before she’d let them fall. She mimicked his pose, putting her own hands to her hips. “It’s always the same. The instant I stand up to some guy or, God forbid, prove I’m as capable a cowboy as him, I become this sexless, senseless thing, not quite one of the guys, but definitely not female enough to be noticed or acknowledged for anything more than the accuracy of my drop. I catch the cows, I can’t be intelligent, too—and forget attraction. I might as well be one of the heifers—except the bulls only see me for the loops I drop, too.”
Rye folded his arms, unfolded them, yanked on an earlobe, raked his mustache, put his hands on his hips again. Finally he said, “Now let me get this straight. You think you’re unattractive to men.”
She fought the urge to roll her eyes again, giving him a smirk instead. “I’m not an idiot.”
He popped a knee out, shifting his weight. “Uh-huh. So how do you explain the way everyone stares at your butt every time you lift yourself out of the saddle to throw a rope?”
She blinked at him. “They do not!”
“They sure as hell do. Why wouldn’t they? I do.”
“You do not!”
He threw up his hands. “You know what your problem is? You’re stupid! You’re as stupid about men as you say I am about women!”
“I didn’t say you were stupid!”
“Don’t you remember what happened the night you fell in my lap?”
She did remember. In torturous detail. Her face, her body, burned with it suddenly.
“Don’t you know what would have happened if your mother hadn’t walked in?”
She gulped. “Th-that was an accident.”
“So? I was still on the verge of kissing you.” His voice lowered, softened. “The scary thing is, I’m not sure it would’ve stopped there.”
Shaken, she literally quivered. He would have kissed her. He wouldn’t have stopped with just a kiss. But that was then. That was before. She shook her head defensively. “I...I don’t believe you. Now you wouldn’t. Not now.”
A muscle spasmed in the hollow of his jaw. He shifted his weight again, rolling back on his heels, legs spread. “Look at me.”
“What?”
“Look at me, dammit!”
She wasn’t really certain why, but her gaze dropped to the fly of his jeans. She couldn’t miss the long, hard ridge pushing against it. Her gaze zipped right back up to his face. “Wh-why?” she asked incredulously.
“You folded your arms.”
She stared at him. “I folded my arms?”
“Yes. You folded your arms,” he told her, looking pointedly at her chest.
She looked too, gulping. She’d had these breasts forever, it seemed. No one had ever looked at them quite like that. Why did they seem higher, fuller suddenly? This made no sense whatsoever. She shook her head.
“Hell,” he said, and then he knocked her hat off with a sweep of one arm and yanked her to him, his hands at her waist. She looked up just in time. His mouth fell on hers and his tongue rammed into her before her eyelids could even drop closed behind her sunglasses, which collided with his and dug into her face. The surprising, slightly prickly softness of his mustache played an exquisite contrast to the hard demand of his mouth. She’d wondered how that mustache would feel, and now she knew that the reality far surpassed any speculation.
The world sped up, spinning off its axis, throwing her off balance, hurling her against him in a full-body slam. She threw her arms around his neck, feeling her breasts move against his chest. He made a sound that echoed inside her, and his hands slid around her waist, then downward, cupping her bottom and pulling her tighter against him. She slid her tongue on top of his, reaching for the back of his mouth.
Something exploded. Suddenly his hands were all over her, rubbing, skimming, clutching. He slid his hand between her legs, pressing the heavy seam of her jeans against her. He splayed it over her belly, kneading, even as he cupped her from behind with the other. When he squeezed her breast, it was almost painful. And hot. Deliciously hot. She was burning up from the inside out. And she needed him to put out the fire, needed him desperately. Perhaps more desperately than she realized, because she pressed so hard against him that he stumbled backward, and suddenly they weren’t embracing so much as trying not to topple over.
They rocked back and forth until they found their feet again. He had one hand clamped against the back of her head, the other splayed between her shoulder blades. Her own were gripping handfuls of his shirt at his waist His mouth worked hers still, his tongue stroking, sweeping, challenging. She wanted more. Her hands twisted in his shirt, and she made a pleading sound, deep in the back of her throat. All at once he broke the kiss and shoved her away from him.
She was too stunned at first even to think. He ripped his sunshades off and pointed them at her, his chest heaving, his hat perched on the back of his head, one side of his shirttail hanging free. “Get away! Get—” He waggled the glasses at her. She stood rooted to her spot. He didn’t mean her, surely. He straightened and grabbed at his hat as it slid from the back of his head, cramming it on again. He then folded his shades and made a stab at sliding them into his shirt pocket, missed and dropped them on the ground. They both went for them. He veered off just in time to prevent collision. Kara swept them up and held them out at arm’s length. He snatched them away as if rescuing them from a fire.
“I will not,” he began, voice cracking.
“What?”
He swallowed. “Never mind. Just...” He tried to wave her away, realized she wasn’t going anywhere and retreated himself, striding swiftly toward his horse.
She simply didn’t understand what was happening. “Where are you going?”
“Nowhere!” He plopped his hat on the saddle horn and reached for his canteen, unstoppered it and poured the contents over his head. It was as close as he could get out here to a cold shower.
“Oh.” Kara clasped her hands behind her back. “I...I thought you were mounting up.”
He shot her a murderous glare. “Not in these jeans!”
She blinked, then remembered what she had pressed against so recently and blushed. He raked his hair back, rammed his hat down over it and took a deep breath. “Well, I hope you’re satisfied,” he drawled sarcastically.
Her mouth jerked into a smile. “Hardly.”
“That makes two of us!”
She slid her sunshades off her nose, feeling the indentations they left behind, and squinted at him. “So what are we going to do about it?”
“Nothing! Not a damned thing!”
Disappointment settled in. She tried not to let it show too badly. “Why not?”
He strode back up the slight incline, hands on his hips, and came to a stop slightly above her, forcing her to look up at him. “You will not cut your teeth on me,” he vowed.
She didn’t deny that she was inexperienced, just stared at him, wishing. Wanting.
“I can’t let you,” he added softly. “I bleed too easy. The last one nearly bled me to death.”
She wasn’t surprised. She’d known it. But there had to be a way they could be together. Feelings that hot and explosive just didn’t go away. In some part of her, she was certain that they were merely looking for the accommodation. “Was she anything like me?”
He flinched, then shook his head. “No. But it doesn’t matter. I’m still me.”
“Maybe this time would be—”
“No.”
Just like that. “You can’t mean that you won’t touch me again, that we can’t—”
“That’s exactly what I mean.”
And he did. She could see it on his face, in his eyes. What had felt beautiful and breathtaking to her had seemed like a threat and a mistake to him. She bit her lip and dropped her gaze so he wouldn’t see the tears threatening there. She had cried enough lately, more than enough. She tried to find something flippant and clever to say. In the end she just nodded. He stood there a moment longer, then he simply walked away. She slid her glasses back on, even though twilight had softened the glare, and sat down right where she was.
Well, wasn’t that just her luck? He was the first man who actually wanted to, but he wouldn’t. Still, he wanted to. That was something. Not much, but something. She sighed and looked out over the cattle, standing placidly in the holding pens, munching the hay scattered by the men. She was going to spend her life with a horse between her legs and some cow on the end of a rope. It was what she wanted, and yet it seemed oddly barren now. Nevertheless, it was the life to which she’d been born, and she’d embrace it with all the skill and enthusiasm she’d inherited. She was a Detmeyer. She had a proud legacy and work to do to maintain it. How many could say that? Few. Damned few. She wasn’t about to trade it for anything so fleeting as desire, no matter how compelling. She had everything she needed for now, and when she needed more, she’d get it. Somehow.
Nodding decisively, she fixed her gaze on the horizon and her mind on tomorrow. The tears receded. The fires burned low inside her. Eventually the men came, along with her mother and the boy, in a caravan of trucks and trailers and horses. They would make camp on the flat tonight, and tomorrow they’d hit the trail, bright and early. She got up and dusted off the seat of her britches, then reached for her hat and the bag of trash resulting from their dinner. She had work to do, people to see, a camp to set up. Then she’d have a cold, skimpy shower, change and hit the hay. Tomorrow would bring a whole new set of problems, and she’d have them to solve. It was enough, more than enough in some ways. She just wouldn’t think about any others. She just wouldn’t.
He pitched his bedroll right next to hers, then settled down with his back to her, Champ at his side. The excitement was palpable. He’d spent a good hour with Champ, answering his questions, calming him for sleep. He didn’t expect to sleep himself. Wasn’t sure he even wanted to. He knew he’d dream about making love to Kara, and he didn’t want that. He wanted to kick himself for letting this happen. Why hadn’t he just let her think she was unattractive? Why had he had to prove her wrong? Lord, he was an idiot when it came to women. Well, it wouldn’t happen again. She hadn’t spoken to him or so much as glanced in his direction all evening, and that was fine with him. So why did he feel compelled to speak? He clamped his jaws together, and still it came out.
“Good night.”
She paused as if uncertain he’d been speaking to her. Then she softly said, “Good night.”
He closed his eyes. An instant later he opened them again and rolled onto his back, turning his head to look at her. “I think we’re ready for tomorrow.”
To his surprise, she shot him a fleeting, tremulous smile. “I think so. Guess we’ll see.”
He wanted to wrap his arms around her and hold her close, to whisper in her ear that he was sorry, that she was beautiful, that he wanted to be inside her but he just couldn’t take a chance like that, not with a nice woman like her. When had he started thinking of her as nice? He muttered, “Guess so.”
She finished smoothing out her sleeping bag and pads, then shifted into a sitting position and tugged off her boots, placing them side by side between her place and his. The nights before she had put them at the foot of her makeshift bed. Obviously she wanted space between them now, too. That was good. Sort of. He rolled back to his side, listening as she settled down and wondering why those boots sitting there bothered him so. She flipped the side of the sleeping bag up over her body. She never zipped it, but she’d be zipping it before they reached New Mexico. The nights were cool now. They’d turn downright cold before long. He tried desperately not to think that he could keep her warm. He hitched his own cover higher and reached over to do the same for Champ. The boy was sleeping deeply. Rye closed his eyes and thought about tomorrow, mentally checking off a long list of all that must be done before they moved those cows so much as an inch.
He opened his eyes to the half-light of dawn, and his first thought was how generously her breast had overflowed his hand. For a moment he was afraid that he had touched her again in his sleep, but a careful inventory told him he was safe. Except that he was throbbing hard, and he didn’t want to remember the dream that had gotten him that way. He jackknifed up, stomped into his boots without checking them first, glanced at his sleeping son, rammed his hat onto his head and hiked up the hill. He went down the other side and around a boulder to relieve himself. It was a painful process, and he was flirting with frustration by the time he crested the hill again.
The camp was stirring. Dayna came out of the motor home, carrying a large thermos of coffee and a stack of tin cups. Shoes was pulling on his boots. Pogo was hosing water over his face, preparing to shave with the help of the sideview mirror on the water truck. Everyone seemed to be waking except Kara and Champ. Rye went down the hill and straight to Kara’s recumbent form. Ignoring Shoes’s mumbled greeting, he nudged her between the shoulder blades with the toe of his boot. She jerked and made a little snuffling sound, then rolled onto her back and lifted her arms above her head, stretching like a lazy cat. Her eyes opened, and she smiled up at him, her golden hair fanning out behind her and all rumpled around her face. He hadn’t thought that she was particularly pretty the first time he’d seen her, but now something about that round face, the tip-tilted end of her nose, the hugeness of those blue eyes fringed with gold and the softness of her mouth compelled him.
She yawned behind a fist and reached up to ruffle her bangs, asking sleepily, “What time is it?”
“Time to be up,” he said tartly.
He watched the memory of what had happened the evening before come back to her, her smile fading, her blue gaze clouding and skittering away. He realized unhappily that some part of him was glad. He wanted her to suffer as much as he did, infantile as that was, and it shamed him. She sat up and tossed back the side of the sleeping bag, reaching for her boots. He strode off toward the water truck to wash as Dayna set up a folding camp table, announcing, “Breakfast in ten minutes.”
He hung his hat on the sideview mirror as he scrubbed his hands and face, brushed his teeth and scraped back his hair. He didn’t feel like shaving. This wasn’t Sunday-go-to-meeting time, and he didn’t think the cows would be offended by the day’s growth on his face. He stood in line for his coffee and a plate of sweet rolls put up by Angelina the day before. They were tall and light, filled with plump raisins and cinnamon, dripping with milky icing, and they tasted like ash in Rye’s mouth. He choked them down while going over the list clamped to the top of his clipboard.
Half an hour later he was kicking sand, angry with the world. Nothing was going as it should. All his careful plans seemed like so much nonsense as problem after problem cropped up. He felt like one of the Keystone Cops, running from one crisis to the next. Dean turned his ankle first thing. While putting together an ice pack, Pogo and an oddly flustered Dayna got into an argument. George, meanwhile, couldn’t tear himself away from a long conversation on the phone with his sweetheart, and Champ disappeared, only to turn up with Oboe as a frantic Rye was mounting up to go look for him. Rye shouted the boy into tears, then regretted it and spent some time repairing the damage with explanations about parental worries and mutual responsibilities, reminding Champ of the conversation they had days earlier. Somehow Shoes, Bord and Kara remained calm enough to do what had to be done, and almost before Rye knew what was happening, he was swinging into the saddle and giving the order to open the holding pens and drive out the cattle.
The motley beasts immediately bolted in five differrent directions with cowboys who ought to know better by now riding hell-bent for leather after them. Rye sank back into his saddle in disbelief. Kara stood her horse beside his, staring openmouthed at the chaos playing out around them. Rye groaned and bowed his head, wishing devoutly that he could go back and do it all again, beginning with that kiss the day before. The only problem was that he honestly didn’t know what he’d do differently: walk away before he could get his hands on her or strip her and finish what they’d started. He very much feared that it would be the latter.
Kara sighed dramatically and plopped down into her saddle, shaking her head. Then she began to laugh, a chuckle first, then a sputter, followed by a building titter that had him smiling before it erupted into full-fledged belly laughs that sent the horses sidestepping. He looked at her for a long moment, amazed by this woman unlike any other. Then he looked around him with a fresh perspective.
Dean had mounted up with one bare foot sticking straight out, his empty stirrup flopping against the belly of his horse as he chased a running cow. Dayna was throwing tin cups at two confused head that had run into camp and were frantically careening around looking for a way out, turning over everything in sight and trampling it for good measure. Pogo charged to her rescue and got beaned for his efforts. George, riding high, circled a loop around his head with no apparent idea in which direction to throw it, while Bord chased on foot after a horse that had broken free in the confusion and Champ jumped up and down, clapping his hands in glee, Oboe at his side barking at everything and everyone. Only Shoes, assuming his guise of mysterious Indian, rode calmly through the chaos toward them.
He drew up, pushed back the brim of his black hat, leaned a forearm on his saddle horn, his eyes shaded by mirrored glasses and waited for them to calm, thumbing tears of hysterical laughter from their eyes. “What you want to do now?”
Rye took off his own shades, wiped his face dry on his sleeve and looked at Kara. “Well?”
Kara rubbed her fingertips over her eyes beneath her glasses, sucked air and said with a shrug, “Round ’em up.”
Rye picked up his reins, saying to Shoes, “You heard her.” He touched his mount’s flanks with his spurs and cantered off after the main body of the escaping herd, Shoes and Kara falling in behind him.
It was noon before they had the tagged cattle rounded up again and the culls they’d gathered in along the way cut out once more, but at least by then they were working like a real unit instead of half a dozen lunatics on horseback for the first time. They had lunch on horseback, Dayna mounting up to deliver sandwiches, fruit and soft drinks, then collect the refuse. Impatiently Rye positioned his people and had them hold the herd. The cattle milled restlessly, looking for a leader. Rye pointed out the rangy old cow he and Kara had used for leading on that day they had come to think of as the day of the slaughter, and Kara dropped a loop on her, dragging her in the general direction they needed to go. One by one, others fell in behind. For the second time that day, Rye stood in his stirrups, shouting, “Let’s move ’em!”
Shaking out his loop, he used the end of the rope to flick the rump of a big, bawling calf. It bolted after its mother. Soon the herd as a whole surged after Kara’s leader, the hands riding flank to keep them bunched. Rye rode fast to catch up with her. “Keep ’em at a walk. I’ll see the camp moved out and catch up with you.”
“No problem.”
He trotted back to camp. “I need everybody mounted this morning,” he said to Dayna and Bord. “Let’s leapfrog the vehicles for now. Wait for us at the first crossing.”
“That would be the Detmeyer-Canders fence line,” Dayna commented for clarity’s sake.
“That’s right,” Rye acknowledged, climbing down from the saddle and beginning to loosen his girth.
“But that’s only about eight or nine miles,” Bord pointed out.
“Seven,” Rye said unhappily, “but I’m betting it’ll take us the rest of the day to get ’em that far. They’re as new to this stuff as we are, you know. If we have daylight left when we get there, I’ll cut loose Shoes and Dean to help you drive.”
“Don’t worry about us,” Dayna said. “We’ll manage.”
“I’m counting on that,” he admitted. “Bord, bring me a fresh mount. This soldier’s done a day’s work already, and I have rough riding to do today.” Bord went off to do as told. Dayna picked up a lead rope and slid it into place, quickly stripping the horse of bit and bridle. “You don’t have to do that,” Rye said, lifting off the saddle.
“I don’t mind,” she said. “I’ve done this more times than I can count.”
Bord led a big bay gelding up to Rye and tossed a fresh blanket onto its back, then went to work with a grooming brush on the other horse while Rye set the saddle. A few moments later, Rye swung up into the saddle once more. “See you at the crossing.”
“Take care!” Dayna called after him.
He doffed his hat and spurred the horse into a run. The herd had already left the flat, swarming down the hillside and spilling out into the valley. The crew was trying to bunch them again, sometimes working at odds to one another. Rye rode into the middle of it, shouting orders from the drag position and bringing in stragglers. Eventually, they got them all headed in the right direction again, but the herd was strung out over a mile or more. Rye rode back and forth at a gallop, giving orders and flailing with his rope in a futile effort to bunch them.
Finally he raced to the front and had Kara turn and hold the herd in place, which involved circling them so they wouldn’t get restless and take off on their own again. Meanwhile, he raced back to the drag to bring up the others. By the time they had them sufficiently bunched, Kara had circled back and caught up with him. Essentially, they had backtracked. Rye tamped down his impatience and had her lead them out again. It would do no good to rant and rave.
At least Dayna had camp set up, so the weary, frustrated drovers were greeted with the welcome sight of creature comforts. It was amazing how welcome little things like folding lawn chairs, a campfire and a huge jug of iced tea could be. But before they could dismount and relax, they had to put the herd to bed. That meant guiding the cows through a watering hole before driving them into a grassy corner where the barbwire fencing intersected so they could graze, while pickets were driven and a single strand, marked with strips of fabric, was stretched across them, effectively creating a triangular pen. The heady aroma of beef stew was wafting on the twilight air by the time they were finished, and Pogo volunteered to ride guard while the others ate dinner.
Rye climbed down from the saddle with as many groans and hisses as the rest of them. He couldn’t ever remember being so tired. Or hungry. Or frustrated. Or satisfied. They’d done it. They’d moved a herd of three hundred and thirty-one wild-eyed cows from holding pens on the eastern flat of the Detmeyer ranch to a makeshift camp on the edge of the property near the Green River State Park.
Tomorrow they would cross onto the Canders Ranch, and if they’d learned anything useful, the next day would find them crossing the Hoffman property. And after that, the Nacker place, followed by the Ender, and the Monticello and on and on until they reached his family’s place outside Durango, Colorado.
Beyond that, he wasn’t ready to think.
Hell, he was too tired to think, but somehow after dinner he had to pick a new campsite for tomorrow and call Canders to let him know they’d be crossing and take a second look at the watch list and handle three dozen other details before he could shower, say hello to his son and unroll his sleeping bag. He wondered if he’d last that long.
It turned out that he didn’t have to.
When he emerged from a less-than-satisfactory cold shower, performed beneath the shelter of a tarp thrown over the top of the truck, he found Kara waiting for him, a map clipped to the top of her clipboard. Other than tossing him his shirt, she seemed oblivious to the fact that he wore little more than a pair of jeans. While he shrugged into the shirt and they walked back to the center of camp, she talked.
“Mom and Pogo are taking first watch, then Bord and George. I don’t think Dean can manage it. His ankle’s big as a barrel right now. He’s got an ice pack on it and says it doesn’t hurt, but I don’t want to take any chances, so I’m going out with Shoes later. We all agree that you did the work of three men today, and you’ll probably have to do it again tomorrow, so you sleep this night. No argument. Now, about tomorrow’s campsite. Take a look at this.”
She pushed the clipboard under his nose. “The original site has better water and real holding pens, but even if we make the kind of mileage we hope to, it’s a day and half away. Fact is, we aren’t going to get there tomorrow evening. This one has a meadow that butts a cliff on one side and is undercut on another with a cavern, creating a natural barrier not even cows are stupid enough to go over. I’ve seen it, so I can tell you that we’ll have to string pickets in two places, but together they probably won’t involve much more than we did tonight. What do you think?”
“What’s me mileage?”
She wrinkled her nose. “About eight miles, not much more than we did today.”
He tugged his earlobe thoughtfully. “Okay, so we take it easy tomorrow, give everyone a chance to settle in, and day after we push it hard.”
“We can make it within spitting distance of Moab day after tomorrow, I know we can.”
“My thought, too. Okay, we’ve got that nailed. Now I’ve got to call Walt Canders and let him know—”
“I’ve talked to him already,” she cut in, drawing to a halt. “He says anything we want to do is fine with him. I promised we’d call when we hit camp tomorrow evening. He wants to come out and take a look around at the operation, so I invited him to dinner.”
Rye put his hands to his hips and looked at her. The woman was a marvel. “Okay. Anything else I ought to know?”
She rattled off nearly everything on his list and a couple items he hadn’t thought of, winding up with, “And I think Dean should drive tomorrow. That ankle may not hurt, but it looks like hell, and I don’t think he ought to be riding. God willing, it’ll be a short day, so we can make it without him, I’m sure of it.”
“All right. I’ll talk to him.”
“Thanks. I thought it might sound better coming from you.”
“I’m the one who ought to be thanking you,” he said. “You seem to have thought of everything.”
“Well, you were looking a little used up,” she told him, “and I figured I might have had something to do with it. That may sound egotistical—”
“It’s not.”
“But I figure if I was shaken up by what happened yesterday you probably were, too.”
He felt a thrill of satisfaction that was immediately purged by sheer terror. “Damn, Kara, don’t you hold anything back?”
She ducked her head. “Guess not. Just isn’t my way. Sorry if that makes you uncomfortable, but—”
“I didn’t say that,” he interrupted, softening his voice. He was keenly aware of everything that was going on around them, the many eyes and ears that could tune in at any moment to the small drama unfolding right in their midst, and he still had to jam his hands into his pockets to keep from reaching out for her. “I admire your honesty,” he went on in a near whisper. “So I’m going to return the compliment and be honest with you. What happened has had me on edge ever since. For both our sakes, I wish it hadn’t happened.” She winced, and he hurried on. “But it did, and now we’ve got to put it behind us. Deal?”
She nodded without looking at him.
He swallowed and went on, wondering why this was so hard when it was so obviously the best thing for everyone. “I appreciate your understanding and everything you’ve done today. We couldn’t have done it without you. I couldn’t have done it without you. I don’t even want to try. So let’s call it friends and be done with the other.” He stuck out his hand. For a long moment it looked as though she wasn’t going to take it, but she stuck the pencil behind her ear and laid her palm against his, still without meeting his gaze. He hoped she didn’t. The warmth of her hand in his was about all he could take. He couldn’t even make himself shake it. After a moment she yanked it back, flashed him a weak smile and muttered something about having to speak to her mother.
He watched her walk away, feeling empty and alone. So alone. Then his son’s bright laughter reminded him that he didn’t have to be, and he let it pull him toward the only human being in the world who loved him without reservation, the only one whom he trusted himself to love in like manner. That ought to be enough. When had it stopped being enough?