Saturday morning Cale rode into the rodeo grounds at the north end of Ninth Street, a loose ring of automobiles already forming an arena next to the holding pens. Several slots waited for others to scoot in and plug the gaps. He recognized Rupley’s Studebaker and a couple of other ranchers’ new motorcars. He couldn’t stem the tide, but he’d sure enough give up his spurs before he’d trade his horse for a heap of tin and rubber.
Members of the Cattlemen’s Association clustered off to themselves on the west side, and Cale joined them. Dismounting, he held Doc’s reins loosely, unwilling to ground tie him with so many clackety cars coming and going. The gelding raised his head and pricked his ears, and Cale followed his notice to a wagon headed their way. Helen’s Sunday straw hat set her apart from Hugh on the seat, and the boys bounced in the back. Ty was swinging his loop over his head and everyone else’s as well. Grace would be proud.
“What’s your plan, Hutton?” Joe Grady from over Black Mountain cut right to it.
Cale turned back to the group. He’d heard Grady had lost more than a dozen head. “I think we’ve got more than one enemy.”
Crockett scoffed. “Yeah. We got ourselves a herd of bear.”
A couple of men laughed.
Grady swore under his breath. “Or one big grizzly with Old Mose for a pa.” He crossed his arms and spread his stance, ready to take on any who disagreed with his theory.
Cale looked around the group. “How many of you found bear sign on your spread?”
Four men flicked a hand.
“How many of you lost cattle with no sign of anything?”
Five more added to the count.
Herb Rupley joined the group, cigar dangling from his teeth.
“Rupley, we’re takin’ a tally on our losses. How many trees have you lost?”
“A dozen last I checked.”
“Rustlers?” Crockett laughed at his own joke.
Rupley’s cigar bobbed.
“It’s a bear and a big one. Plain as day. And I’ve got the claw marks and broken tree trunks to prove it.”
The information rippled around the group, sobering them all, but Cale still doubted Rupley’s suspicions. Too far out of a grizzly’s range.
He looked at each man. Most he knew, had grown up around them and their families. All totaled, they’d lost a lot of money to whatever was stealing their cattle.
He took the chip from his vest pocket, flicked it in the air, and caught it along with every man’s attention. “I think we’ve got more than one culprit. A bear for sure, but rustlers too. I found a half-eaten steer on my place, but some of you have lost animals with no evidence of a fight. I think someone is sneaking in under cover of the Old Mose rumor and makin’ a profit on the side.”
He opened his hand and silence pulled the small group tighter. From the corner of his eye, he noticed two cowboys hanging off to the side, hats low and facing away.
He lowered his voice. “I gamble, but with beef prices, not poker chips from Cripple Creek.”
A couple of swear words and mumbled remarks bounced among the cattlemen.
“Old Mose ain’t just whiskey talk, and you know it, Hutton. You saw his carcass laid out six years ago.” Grady’s dark eyes held decades of memory behind them. “He was big enough to take one of our young bulls, and it’s more than possible he sired a cub or two that could end up doing the same. There’s nothing to keep one from pickin’ off our stock.”
Cale pocketed the chip. “I didn’t say it wasn’t true, Joe. But we’ve got more than a bear to deal with.”
“Do we need a posse?”
Crockett’s question fired off a round of argument, and Cale held up his hands.
Hugh ambled over from where he’d left the wagon and stopped just outside the circle. “We can’t form a posse. That’s the sheriff’s job. But we can send a couple fellas up to Cripple Creek to talk to the butchers. See who they’re buying their beef from, other than us.”
Surprised by Hugh’s level-headed suggestion, Cale asked for volunteers. Three of the ranchers with no bear sign raised their hands.
“Good. Sooner you can make it, the better. Let the sheriff know what you find.” He looked at the others. “Who’s up for a bear hunt?”
A half dozen raised their hands.
Hugh caught his eye with a nod. “I’ll take ’em,” he said.
“Before you break off to plan the hunt, how many of you are in favor of offering a reward for rustlers?”
Every man agreed, some more heartily than others. Even Rupley.
“All right. Harper, you collect the money and take it to Sheriff Payton to hold for us. Tell him what we’re doing. We’ll all meet at the café a week from today. Noon.”
Dust was kicking up around them from automobiles driving in, and the men went their separate ways. Cale pulled Rupley aside, the man’s cigar bobbing like apples in a horse trough.
He thumbed his hat up and scratched his cheek, smooth from a close shave this morning. “I know you’ve got bear trouble, Rupley. That’s clear from what you’ve said. But I doubt it’s a cattle-killing grizzly. They don’t wander down this far from their haunt. My guess is, it’s probably a family of black bear from along the river satisfying their sweet tooth.”
The cigar shot up at a hard angle and stayed there, drawing Cale’s eye to Rupley’s bowler. The man stared at him for a good half-minute before the cigar drooped.
“I suppose you’re right. I was hopin’ to kill two birds with one stone.”
“Appreciate it, I do. But you don’t need to contribute to the reward pot.”
Rupley resisted. “I’m a community-minded man, Hutton. The ranchers’ problems are my problems. I don’t mind pitching in.”
Cale offered his hand. “Much obliged.”
Rupley strode off to his now-dusty Studebaker, climbed in, and drove away. Cale wouldn’t be surprised if Herb Rupley ran for public office in this year’s election. Probably win the ticket.
A holler turned his head to a ruckus in the horse pen. He snagged Doc’s reins and ambled that way, sizing up the competition that sat around on their cow ponies, ropes coiled neatly against their saddles. He recognized most as working day men from area spreads, a couple from as far away as Pueblo, probably on borrowed horses.
At the pens, a bronc from Tol Witcher’s string, Tornado, was breaking in half. The so-called “demon in horseflesh” was no bigger than any other range-raised horse, a thousand pounds tops. But he was an ornery son-of-a-gun. If Jed Barr drew him, it might be good watchin’ after all.
The chuck wagon teams had set up their camps a ways off, and wild-horse racers stood next to their readied saddles, waiting for the show to begin.
More automobiles arrived, forming a second ring around the first. He swung into the saddle and looked for the three touring cars the moving-picture folks had driven out to the ranch. More specifically, he was scouting a little bob-haired filly that came up to his chin. And into his mind more often than was convenient.
There was a crowd of people for certain, and if the picture folks hadn’t pulled up stakes, she was hiding out somewhere. Unreasonable disappointment dallied his gut and tried to drag away his concentration. He turned from the onlookers, untied his rope, and built a loop. He was there to win the roping and take home some of the purse money. He’d best keep his wits about him and not get his spurs tangled over some city skirt with dark eyes and a mind of her own.
~
Ella climbed from the touring car, grateful for the ease of movement afforded by the split skirt and boots. She hiked her satchel strap and situated the wide-brimmed hat she’d snagged from the costumes, grateful, also, for the opportunity to enjoy the day’s events incognito.
Everyone she’d met that week, whether at Gilmore’s Laundry or Favorite Dry Goods, or just passersby on her walk to the studio either mentioned Cale’s daring Main Street rescue or stared openly and whispered as she passed. Such attention made her uncomfortable. And to think, Mabel lived for it.
Dust rose on the opposite side of the large open lot where several corrals held horses and cattle. Just as many cowboys, it seemed, milled next to them, swinging ropes and laughing. Everyone, spectators and contestants alike, was in high spirits.
She tugged her hat down and angled away, seeking an indirect approach. She did not want any of the Huttons to recognize her. Invisibility was paramount for what she wanted to photograph, and she did not want to distract Cale from his competition. Their last encounter in the ranch kitchen made it clear that distraction—for her as well—was a distinct possibility.
Sharp voices caught her ear, and she peeked from beneath her wide brim at two cowboys in a heated argument. One wore wooly chaps similar to those in her collection, the other a pair of what she’d heard men call batwings due to their wide, loose leather. This pair was adorned with silver conchos and fringed pockets and trimmed with a double row of silver studs. Easy enough to duplicate with a heavy sewing machine, and she determined to do so.
Appearing as uninterested as possible, she pulled out her camera and eased closer, focusing on the corrals at a right angle to the arguing cowboys, but the same distance away. Peering through her view finder, she caught errant words from the conversation. Cripple Creek, butcher, and brands were among the terms that fired between the two. Slowly she turned, catching them both in her frame. Click.
The man in batwings threw her a dark frown. Her pulse quickened, throbbing against the hat band snugging her temple. She turned slightly and focused on several horses tethered at the corral. He moved her way.
She eased toward another group of cowboys, some holding ropes, all wearing hats, and feigned more photographs while watching the man in conchos. More theatrics in a public setting were exactly what she did not want. She circled the group, careful not to give the impression she was escaping, though her heart raced as surely as Doc had the day Cale swept her off the street.
And there he was, broad-shouldered and confident, in complete control, milling in a loose circle with other riders, a loop tucked under his arm. She stopped and focused, waiting for her nerves to steady and for Cale to ride into the frame in perfect profile.
Doc held his head high, anticipation bouncing his steps. His perked ears swiveled back to his master one at a time, listening, ready for his next command while taking in all the activity around them. Could there be a more noble steed? A grander knight?
When had Cale Hutton evolved from uncouth cowboy to grand knight?
The automobile behind her squawked, shattering the moment and unsettling not only her nerves, but several cowboys’ mounts as well. She made her way back to the makeshift arena and squeezed in between two fenders, as close to the pending action as possible.
The two arguing men had vanished.
Though the Cañon City Wild West Days lacked the pageantry of a World’s Fair exposition, the community made up for it in enthusiasm. Spectators cheered contestants by name. Family members and friends waved and yelled from the crowd, thrilling over each wild bronc that dumped its rider and each steer that got away.
As she expected, Jed spurred his bronc in grand style, fanning the air with his hat, and making a showy dismount. But breath lodged in her throat as Cale prepared to chase down and rope his fleeing steers faster than his competitors. She knew the action would be ghosted on her film, but she took several photographs anyway, reminders of her days in Colorado.
By late afternoon, she was covered in dust and exhausted from opposing rounds of tension and excitement for some competitors and sympathy over loss and injury for others. People backed their automobiles from the circle, the crowd thinned, and cowboys collected their winnings. Jed’s voiced boomed above the crowd, inviting the company for a round of drinks before the big dance downtown, and they all piled into the cars. She held back.
She didn’t have the strength to attempt fitting in where she did not. Working with the company members was one thing but socializing with them as they drank and caroused was quite another. Mabel’s tongue would no doubt be loosed even further, and with fatigue pressing upon her, Ella didn’t trust herself not to do or say something that would remind Mabel of her threat to quit if Ella wasn’t fired. It would take every last ounce of her strength, but she preferred to walk back to the hotel.
She took her time crossing the empty lot, strolling rather than marching, keeping her leg muscles as loose and flexible as possible. Images of a copper bathing tub full of steaming water drew her on, providing the motivation she needed for the long trek. Automobiles passed her with horns blaring and arms waving. No one offered her a ride.
Nor would she have taken one from a stranger.
The sun surrendered to the tug of Fremont Peak, inching closer to the rocky point west of town, and the air cooled. A welcome change, this mountain climate, compared to Chicago’s swathing summer humidity. A few riders passed her on their way to town, and she hugged the edge of the road as daylight dimmed, unwilling to be trampled by a startled horse or run down by an automobile. One such narrow escape was quite enough.
A steady clopping behind her announced yet another rider headed into town. The trotting slowed to a walk as it drew closer, and she moved farther off the road and into the grass of another field. From the corner of her eye, she saw the horse come alongside her, and the rider slowed to match her pace, backlit by the sinking sun. The silhouette of hat and rider lifted the fine hairs on the back of her neck.
“Looks like you could use a ride.”
Cale’s deep voice lifted her spirit, and her pulse leapt unexpectedly. She took a moment to harness her emotions, and with a hand, shielded her eyes as she gazed up at his sun-shrouded figure.
“I’m fine,” she lied, channeling all her energy into even steps that did not favor her right leg.
He held Doc to a steady walk and looked straight ahead, his hat brim low. Had he heard her? The reins lay loosely in his left hand. He wouldn’t be reaching down for her, unless he switched hands. Please, no. Not again. She angled a bit farther from the road. Doc shadowed her ploy.
Was he going to dog her the entire way? Surely not.
“I see you have your camera.”
Not looking her way, he assumed she had her camera, though she always carried it in the satchel. A safe assumption on his part.
“Yes. It was an interesting afternoon.”
“As good as the World’s Fair?”
She glanced up again to find him still focused ahead, as should she. The uneven ground challenged her fatigue, and at that moment, a hollow opened before her without warning. Stumbling, she quickly straightened, but her ankle had bent sharply, and it throbbed with each step.
She drew in a tight breath. “Yes.”
“Yes, what?”
Briefly irritated by such an inane response, she squinted ahead into the growing dark. No more glances his way. She had to watch where she was going, though it became increasingly difficult in the dying light. “Yes, it was good. Entertaining.”
Instead of commenting, he kicked Doc into a sudden leap. Two long strides ahead, the horse whirled to a stop before her and he stepped off and waited as she approached.
Unable to see his expression, she tensed at his imposing form. Both man and beast towered above her, blocking her way unless she shied into the road or across the open field. Either option could prove foolish, yet what did he intend? Her fingers tightened around her satchel strap.
She slowed her steps until she stood at Doc’s head. The horse whiffled against her shoulder. She rubbed his velvety nose and drank in his scent.
“He’d like to give you a hand.” A hushed snort—from the man, not the horse. “Or should I say hoof.”
“Thank you, but—”
Hard hands clamped about her waist and hoisted her off the ground. “I’ll take that as a yes.”
Without warning or asking permission, he swung her up to the saddle.
She gripped the saddle horn, an unfamiliar appendage to one accustomed to riding English. But not as unfamiliar as a man stepping up behind her, seating himself on the saddle’s skirt and hemming her in with one arm around her waist, the other hand taking the reins.
If she didn’t breathe, she’d faint. Even Charles had never dared such a maneuver.
Cale did not hold her so close that she couldn’t breathe, she simply couldn’t breathe because he was so close. Her hat brim crimped against his chest, and after a few steps forward, he pulled it off her head and handed it to her.
“Here. Hold this. Please.”
She complied, strictly from shock at his abrupt manner, though she couldn’t very well toss it aside. It wasn’t hers.
The gelding’s easy gait soon had her relaxed, her leg muscles loosened, her back not as stiff. Cale’s arm pulled gently at her waist until she rested against him, the buttons of his vest pressing into her right shoulder blade. His breath tickled the top of her head. She’d never felt more protected.
A coiled rope lay beneath her right leg, but the heavy fabric of her skirt prevented it from rubbing. Doc seemed unbothered by her boots brushing his ribs, and she could barely make out the swivel of his ears as he listened for his master’s voice while taking heed to what lay ahead.
Time slowed to rhythmic plodding. A silent prayer of thanks ascended for Cale coming upon her when he did.
His chest expanded. “If I see Thorson anytime soon, I’ll be telling him what I think of him leaving you to walk back to the hotel in the dark.”
If such a meeting occurred, she had no doubt that it would not be cordial. She’d heard an edge to Cale’s words before, but she’d never had their intensity vibrate up and down her backbone. The sensation compelled her to defend her boss’s decision. “I’m sure they would have taken me. I just didn’t want to go with them.”
His arm tensed ever so slightly. “Why not?”
She pulled a deep breath and let it escape in a sigh. Truth was easier spoken under cover of darkness rather than while looking into the other person’s eyes. “They were going out for drinks and then to the dance. I don’t enjoy either. Nor do I enjoy pretending to enjoy or forcing myself to fit in where I don’t belong.”
His wordless response skimmed the top of her head, and she wasn’t sure if his derision was aimed at her or her coworkers. She’d never spoken quite so boldly to any man, not even to Charles. Especially not to her father.
Warmth blew close against her hair, as if he’d dipped his head. “You look like a tick under a toadstool in that hat.”
Her turn to huff. He chuckled, and she offered silent thanks that he couldn’t see the smile spreading on her face.
“Where do you want to eat?”
The question caught her off guard more than the toadstool remark.
“I’m sure Clara will have a biscuit or two set aside for me. You needn’t worry that I’ll go hungry.”
Barely lifting the rein against Doc’s neck, Cale turned them to the left and into the electric glow of Main Street after hours. Several establishments were open—the cigar shop, the tea parlor, a billiard hall, the nickelodeon, and a saloon. And the inviting glow of the Hotel Denton beckoned ahead. She sat up, keenly aware of the draft behind her and the absence of Cale’s close support.
He stopped before the hotel’s hitching post, stepped down, and tethered Doc. She flexed her ankle and each muscle in each leg, predicting the outcome of dismounting under her own strength. Without the benefit of stirrups, it might be tricky. She plopped the hat on, gripped the horn, and leaned forward to swing her right leg over the cantle. From her position with the wide hat brim pulled low, she didn’t see Cale reach for her.
“Oh!” She gripped the hands belting her waist as she rose in the air and descended gently to the street. Those hands remained firm, and she had to tip her head back to see beneath her hat brim. The streetlight hooked the dimple in his cheek. “Do you make a habit of acting unannounced?”
The dimple deepened. “Never had need to.” He released his hold and stepped back, one arm extended as if he expected her to topple.
She adjusted the satchel, straightened her spine, and moved toward the sidewalk, where she stepped up and turned. He was only slightly taller now, but it was easier to look him in the eye as she spoke. “Thank you for the ride home. You and Doc”—she stroked the horse’s handsome head and scratched beneath his forelock—“were a welcome surprise. I must admit, the distance was farther than I remembered from the drive out earlier today.”
Keeping his thoughts to himself, Cale stepped up beside her and offered his arm. With only the slightest hesitation, she tucked her fingers inside his elbow and together they approached the gleaming glass and oak-paneled entrance to the Denton. He opened the door and waited for her to enter—a gentleman in chaps and spurs and dusty boots. One who smelled not of cigars, stuffy libraries, and men’s cologne, but of horses and cattle and hard work.
What would her father have to say about that?