| |
Was it the girl's choking scream or the vision of the blood-soaked snow that woke him this time? He sat on the edge of his bed with elbows to knees, palms pressed tightly to his closed eyes. It didn't matter anymore. The dream was always the same, ending the same, and he always awoke like this, sweat drenched shirt, breathing like he'd run for miles. He had been running, for months now, from the dream, from the memory that wouldn't leave him. Not even here, 1,500 miles away, could he escape it.
Jonathan Winthrop leaned further forward, pressing the palms harder into his eyes until he felt pain. That was real. How much of the dream was based in reality? Once again, he wished that he could sleep, just one night, without the haunting.
Rising wearily to his feet, he crossed the wood floor to the crude table bravely supporting a bucket of water. Splashing cold water on his face helped to clear his head. Despite the chill of the morning, he stripped off his shirt and doused his body with cold spring water. He shivered. Taking the small mirror and propping it on the window sill, he did what he'd done for years as a Texas Ranger. He shaved. It didn't matter the weather, snow or heat. It didn't matter the place, prosperous town or high desert. He took the time to groom himself, to shave and attend to the neatness of his clothing. He was a Texas Ranger, a title worthy of respect.
Gazing in the mirror, he hesitated, the razor lifted half-way to his cheek. But he wasn't a Ranger now, was he? And respect? He'd none for himself, why would others give it to him? But habits die hard so he touched the razor to his cheek and drew it up against the night's growth of stubble. The routine slowed his breathing, forcing the dream back into that dark haunted corner of his mind where it would wait until he closed his eyes to sleep.
Rummaging through the drawer, he pulled out a clean shirt and slipped it on. After looking in the mirror again, he touched his temple where strands of gray hair peppered through brown. This was something he'd only noticed since the dreams began.
"Jonathan, you're turning into an old man, and old men don't make their living with a gun." He said it aloud, and felt a little better for it. Sometimes a little lie to oneself can help, but only for a little while. The need to find another line of work had nothing to do with a lessening of his skills and everything to do with shattered confidence.
Rays of brilliant gold, over-laid with pink spilled over the eastern mountain range as he stepped from the bunkhouse into a crisp spring Idaho morning. The chill drove away the nightmare's last echoes, pulling him back into the present. He breathed deep taking in the fragrant incense of pine and cedar. The climate and the landscape were vastly different from his native Texas, a difference he rather favored.
His mare nickered a greeting, impatient for breakfast. He called to her, "What are you whining about? You never used to wake up in a dry bed. You're growing spoiled. Count your blessings, girl!"
The bay called again, more persistent this time. Jonathan stepped down from the porch and crossed the muddy yard to her corral. She loved scratches almost as much as grain, at least that's what Jonathan supposed from her insistent nudging. He obliged, as her neck extended, eye lids lowered in pleasure.
After several minutes of indulging her, he said, "Okay, enough of that." Jonathan threw her breakfast into the corral and waited awhile to watch her nuzzle through the grass in search of grain. He knew he loved that mare too much, but more than anyone in his life in recent years, she'd been his faithful friend. Conversations with her were short and to the point, and never unduly emotional even if she was a mare. With her, there was never the confusion of ambiguous language or awkward silence.
"Mr. Winthrop!" A gangly boy of thirteen, all legs and arms not yet grown into, flapped at him from the porch of the main house. The house was just a larger shack really, but this one, unlike the bunkhouse, held a fireplace and facilities for cooking.
"Father's got breakfast ready," he shouted, scaring a hen into a frantic dash across the yard.
Jonathan waved back. "Thanks, Adam. Be there in a minute."
He combed his fingers through his mop of wavy brown hair and pushed his hat low on his brow. The mare looked up and snorted.
"Don't talk with your mouth full," Jonathan threw back and strode across the yard, his long legs stepping effortlessly across a dozen puddles along the way.
Timothy Hindricks wasn't much of a rancher, yet. But Jonathan considered himself mighty lucky to have met up with a man who knew how to cook. Opening the door to the enticing smell of fried ham and biscuits was nearly akin to heaven as far as he was concerned. A dozen years on the trail and more in the war had nearly brought him to despair of ever eating anything that didn't taste like rawhide or burnt flour. It seemed everything he'd eaten in those years had been drained of every ounce of moisture, requiring a canteen of water to even wash it all down. He wondered at times if his own saddle would have had more to offer in terms of flavor.
But Timothy! Well, Jonathan was convinced Timothy knew magic when it came to cooking, and with nearly every meal Jonathan could count on a pitcher of gravy to pour over everything. And he did. Timothy was a man who could cook, and as his appearance attested to, he liked to eat his own cooking nearly as much.
As Jonathan stepped through the door, Timothy rubbed his hands on the apron around his generous girth, greeting him as he did. "Good morning, Jon! Splendid morning, don't you think? Sky the color of the blush on a pretty girl's cheek!"
Jonathan had never met a man with such enthusiasm for the ordinary. But then, he'd never befriended a school teacher. The ones he'd known growing up in east Texas seemed more inclined to display their enthusiasm for discipline and he'd known that enthusiasm often enough on the seat of his britches. Taking the mug of hot coffee from Adam's hand, he considered Timothy's word picture. It had been colorful, but he might have likened it to the color of his hands after washing them in a cold mountain stream. He chuckled to himself. He'd certainly never be a poet.
Timothy dished up a generous helping of ham and placed it on the table next to a stack of books with titles such as Cattle: Their Breeds, Management, and Diseases and The Hearty Devon Breed.
"Adam and I already had ours. You take your time." He picked up a bowl of gravy and pushed it across the table. "Been wanting to talk to you about our agreement." Timothy lowered himself onto a stool across from Jonathan.
Jonathan looked up, an eyebrow cocked expectantly. "Sounds a mite ominous the way you put it, Timothy."
Timothy threw back his head and laughed. "No, nothing bad. Not at all. Much to the contrary." He picked up a spoon and held it by the handle, turning the tip of its bowl in circles on the tablecloth.
Jonathan grew more curious at the man's hesitancy. He leaned back in the chair and studied Timothy's suddenly serious face. "Well?"
Timothy shifted and he chewed on his lip for a few moments before answering. "I know that you didn't much like the idea of baby-sitting two greenhorns like Adam and I, especially such a long way across the country. We'd never have made it without you." His face grew quiet as he met Jonathan's steady gaze. "Fact is, we'd not only have had our cattle stolen, but we'd likely be dead now."
Adam brought his father a steaming mug of coffee and sat at the table.
"Thanks, son."
"You held your own, both you and Adam." Jonathan sipped tentatively at his coffee, and then took a longer drink after judging its heat.
"That's generous of you. I may be foolish at times, like attempting to start this ranch with no more experience than what I've gleaned from books, but I'm no fool. Those three men we met north of Salt Lake had no good intentions when they asked to sign on and help us with the cattle. You knew that."
Jonathan shrugged his shoulder and leaned forward, resting his elbows easily on the table. He was a good judge of character. He'd learned that from years of tracking down men gone bad from greed and stupidity. And Timothy was right, those three men had venom in their blood, as bad as they come. But Timothy was a trusting man and he just hadn't seen it, hiring the men against Jonathan's advice to the contrary.
"So, what's your point? We made it through. This is a fine piece of land you found, and you have enough stock left to establish yourself as a rancher." He winked at Adam. "And Adam, here, well. . .he's shown he's made from strong stock himself."
Adam cast his eyes to the table, color rising to his cheeks at the compliment.
Timothy nodded. "You're right. And I know we agreed that you would only stay through the winter, but. . ." He glanced over at Adam before continuing. "Well, Adam and I would like you to stay on."
Jonathan sat back, his face an expressionless mask.
"Really, Jonathan, why not? There's that parcel down by the river between here and the North Fork. It's a nice piece of land and plenty of range for your own herd." He was talking fast now. "If you like, we'll cut out half the herd come summer. You've got the summer months to build yourself a snug little cabin near the stream that feeds into the river. We'll be neighbors!" Timothy's voice had raised a pitch.
Jonathan remained stoic.
"Where else do you have to be?" It was Adam who spoke. When Jonathan turned his attention to him, Adam said, "Isn't this as good a place as any to settle down?"
Jonathan gave the boy a thin smile. "Who said I wanted to settle down?"
There was a long silence, broken only by Jonathan as he took another long drink of coffee. Jonathan saw the boy's shoulders sag. The boy was so young, and probably more suited to the study of those books in the boxes his father had insisted on toting with them. He just didn't seem cut out for frontier life from Jonathan's perspective. But he also knew the boy was devoted to his father, and by extension, his father's dream.
"Look, Timothy, I appreciate your offer, but I'm no cattleman. I told you that." He put his cup down and spread his hands on the table while he considered what Timothy was asking and offering. "I'll do this. I'll stay through the summer."
Timothy grinned at Jonathan. "I appreciate it. We both do."
Jonathan picked up his fork and stabbed at a slice of ham. It was a concession that didn't cost him anything but time, and he knew the boy was right. Where else did he have to be? Besides the cooking was mighty fine.
Adam left the cabin to start his chores. Timothy remained at the table and watched Jonathan for a short time before asking, "But will you at least consider staying on? You're a good man, and I think the boy can learn a lot from you. I can teach him Latin, mathematics, and the classics, but I can't teach him how to be what you are."
Jonathan continued chewing, with the air of a man more interested in digesting words than ham. He picked up his cup and took a slow drink hoping the warm coffee would make the bite wash down more easily. At last he looked up and asked, "And what do you think I am?"
Timothy leaned forward. "You're a man of integrity. You're strong and self-confident. You're everything a man needs to be in a country like this."
Jonathan gripped the fork handle until he felt it begin to bend in his hand. Perhaps that was who he had been, once upon a time. But now?
Chapter 3
