A Change of Scenery, page 10
He cut her a side glance, puzzled by her words.
“You probably thought I wouldn’t know what to do with this mess since I have hardly any hair of my own.”
He hooked the near stirrup over the horn and set to rubbing the apron leather with a rag for no good reason. “No deception there. Fact is, tells me a lot about you.”
Her mouth pulled back at the corners as her fingers fanned wide into the knotted mane. “And what do you think it tells you?”
He dropped the stirrup, picked up the saddle, and turned it around. It told him there was more to her than a dark-eyed, sharp-tongued city gal. “You’re willing to try something different.”
She nodded slowly, as if measuring his words.
He waited a beat for her story, but she didn’t give it. He might as well talk to his horse.
The gelding stood with a back leg cocked and his eyes half closed, listening to every word.
“So is it like I told the boys where you’re from? No mountains or pine?” He slanted a look beneath his hat brim.
Her slender fingers combed through Barlow’s mane. “Chicago is a big, crowded city with lovely parks, harsh winters, and dirty sky.” She looked up at the blue dome above them. “Hills and some forests, but no mountains like you have here.”
No wonder she wanted pictures. He couldn’t imagine living anywhere else but the Rafter-H, especially a city like Chicago. “I can show you some pretty places if you’ll ride with me.”
Her skin paled and she tucked her elbows close to her body.
Fear. His gut tightened and he felt again her frailty against his chest that morning in town. Her hammering heart and shallow breaths. “I’ll keep you safe.”
Her lips parted but no sound came out. Just a glance of her dark, wary eyes before she whispered, “I can’t ride.”
Same answer as last night. The ground thinned out beneath him like early spring ice, but he pressed on. “Can’t or won’t?”
A muscle in her jaw tensed.
Coax her, don’t run her off again. “Or we could walk out in the pasture a ways, see where the riders came down from the draw yesterday.”
She turned away from him, smoothed her hand over the mare’s back and rump, and reached for the tail. Every move confirmed familiarity. So what kept her ground-tied?
“All right.”
If he hadn’t been listening, he’d have missed it. A small step, but he’d take it over nothing. He hefted the saddle back to the tack room and rummaged around for a long lead to a short idea. Finding a soft cotton rope, he coiled it and hooked it over his shoulder.
When he returned, Barlow was lipping the leftover grain from Ella’s flattened palm, ears twitching to her soft, low tones. Maybe she’d say more to him if he hadn’t called her a peacock.
He opened the gate, and Ella led the mare through and reached for the halter buckle.
“Leave it on her. Just take off the lead.”
She cocked an eyebrow at him but did as he asked.
He hung the short lead over the rail and started for the open pasture. “This way.”
He shortened his stride.
She walked easily beside him, head up, one arm resting on her satchel as she took in her surroundings.
“It’s beautiful here. So clean.”
“Unless it comes a storm and you get caught in it without your slicker.”
She looked up at him, concern pinching her face. “Really? That fast? Can’t you see it coming in time?”
“Oh, you can see it coming. Same way you can see a cougar leaping at you from a high rock.”
She shuddered and gripped her elbows but kept walking, a slight limp working into her steps.
“’Course that’d be a rare occurrence in these parts.” Though bears weren’t, it seemed, but he didn’t want to spook her, and lately he hadn’t done such a fine job of stringing words together. “See that patch of bright green under the hill there?”
She slowed and looked where he pointed.
“Aspen. They turn yellow in the fall. The only gold you’ll find in these mountains this side of Cripple Creek.”
She stopped and took in the view. “I’ve read about the Independence Lode and the fires.”
He reached behind her, took her by the shoulders, and gently turned her north where higher, pine-covered slopes rolled up toward the backside of Pikes Peak. “We could see the smoke from here. Worried pa some. Hugh and Grace and I would sneak out at night and climb up the bluff to watch the sky glow red.” From behind her, he pointed over her shoulder. “Right over the ridge there. As the crow flies, about fifteen miles.”
She turned her head and her breath brushed his chin. “That close?”
Too close. “But not an easy trip unless you’re that crow.” He stepped around her and continued on, his pulse galloping with her so near. “A little farther, and you’ll see the break where the stampede came down yesterday.”
Sensing she wasn’t following, he looked over his shoulder and caught her rubbing her leg. “You all right?”
She straightened. “Why, yes. I’m right as rain.” She ran her hands down her riding skirt and looked around. “Though I don’t see any headed our way.” Her smile, a bit forced, still brightened the morning.
“Come on then, Rain Woman.” He held out his hand and she took it. He’d carry her if she’d let him. Doc and Barlow meandered a ways behind them, grazing. He chuckled.
“What?”
“We’ve got a couple of tag-alongs.”
She glanced back. “Oh, the dears.”
“Don’t let on. You’ll hurt Doc’s pride.”
“Pride? You’re serious, aren’t you?”
“As an undertaker. He thinks he’s sneaking up on us.”
With her hand in his, her soft laugh fanned a spark. He lifted his hat and sleeved his brow before setting it down again. Things were warming up a might quick. If he wasn’t careful, he’d set the whole pasture ablaze.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Ella set her sights on the fence a hundred yards away. Or a hundred miles. What had she been thinking to accept Cale’s offer?
Clearly, she’d been thinking of photographic opportunity. Of one chance in her lifetime to capture the sweeping vista that stretched around her, no matter where she turned. She’d promised Nana photographs from her travels, and these would not only thrill her grandmother, but also serve as vivid reminders of her daring days of freedom. Daring, in that she’d broken from expectations.
The meadow cushioned her steps, and the quiet beauty almost made her forget she was crippled. As fatigue crept into her leg, she split her attention between the ground just ahead and the distant fencing, anchored every so many feet by poles set up in a giant X. A man could easily step through the odd configuration, but apparently not horses.
The farther they walked from the barn, the more she doubted her ability to return, yet the sweeter the piney perfume. She drank in the scent, and with it, a flutelike bird’s call from her left, answered in a moment with a matching song from her right.
Cale noticed her noticing and answered her silent question. “Meadow larks.”
The mountain rose ahead, darkly cloaked on either side of a deep gash where yesterday, horses and cattle had charged through. This close to the steep opening she marveled that the riders hadn’t all tumbled out end over end.
She’d once been horsewoman enough for a ride like that.
Pain sliced through her leg, yanking her breath and her fingers from Cale’s hand. She stopped and leaned forward, pressing the heel of her hand against her thigh. He moved in, watching silently, his concern nearly tangible. In so many words, he’d called her bold earlier. If only he knew how wrong he was.
His strong hand cupped her shoulder, tempting her to trust him, and it took all her concentration to guard her words. He was much too easy to talk to. Listen to. If she wasn’t careful, she’d tell him everything and expose her soul—as scarred as the mountain before them.
She pulled upright and tramped to the fence where she fell onto the bottom pole and braced a hand on each side. Cale watched her without watching, making a show of searching the horizon with his face turned slightly away. But she caught the flick of his blue eyes upon her, and struggled to keep her own from locking with them. Bold indeed.
“This is one of my favorite spots.” He tipped his hat back and scoured the azure sky. “This and up on the ridge.”
The ranch house and barn were toys in the distance. Doc and Barlow grazed drowsily a few paces away, ears turned toward their master. She took his bait. “Can you see the ridge from here?”
He pointed south, she judged. “See the long low spine that snakes against this side of a darker mountain?”
Squinting, she searched for his spine and snake images, but without success. At her silence, he took a knee beside her and leaned in with his head at her level, one hand braced near hers on the cross pole. Then he aimed with the other, drawing her eyes to follow his two fingers until she discerned the brown line cutting across a green mountain face. If he hadn’t pointed it out, she wouldn’t have noticed.
“I see it!” Unexpected excitement propelled her words, and they each turned toward the other. His breath smelled of coffee and biscuits. Hunger nibbled at her insides, but not for food. She pushed herself upright, forcing him to back away.
“I can see why Mr. Thorson chose your ranch for the film.” She drew in a deep breath and moved along the fence, trailing her hand on the rough poles. “He could fill a dozen reels out here.”
One long stride brought Cale even with her. “I meant to ask you about that. Doesn’t he have the cart before the horse, taking pictures without a story?”
She pulled out her camera and turned away from him, toward the scarred mountain. “He knows the main idea, the premise, but often what he captures on film generates new ideas, so he writes to fit what shows up. It’s easier that way.”
She framed the view before her, wishing she could capture the startling blue of the sky and the varying shades of green. “Then again, sometimes he and the cameraman spend all night long at it, arguing and writing and rewriting. At least that’s what Pete tells me.”
“So you don’t help with the script?”
She swallowed a snide remark. “I just mend the tears in the clothing.”
“How ’bout acting. You ever been in front of the camera? In the action?”
She acted all right. As if she were whole and not brittle. As if she didn’t care what others thought of her damaged state. But not exactly in the action. The idea of stepping in front of the camera provoked an unladylike chortle, and she covered her mouth and dropped her head, the bob hiding her face.
“Wouldn’t you like to?”
His question drew her glance.
“I dare say, there’s very little room for any other woman in Thorson’s films when Mabel Steinway is the leading lady.”
He tugged his hat down with a blue flash. “Now there’s a mouthful.”
Laughter escaped too easily with this Westerner and his plain talk. She forced herself still so she could take a photograph.
From the corner of her eye, she caught him fiddling with the end of the coiled rope he carried. She sat on a lower fence pole as he eased toward the horses with a soft whistle. The mare tossed her head and trotted straight to him. Doc ignored the call.
“Good girl, Barlow.” He snapped the long cotton rope to the halter and backed away, feeding it out a coil at a time until he and the horse stood a good distance apart. The horse’s ears swiveled between her companion and her owner.
Ella’s hands tingled. She knew what was coming.
Cale flicked the rope and clicked his tongue, and the mare tossed her head again. Another flick, and she trotted forward, circling him as if she were the rim of a single-spoke wheel and he the hub.
There was only one reason he’d do such a thing, and Ella had already told him twice that she could not ride. Would not ride. Her muscles tightened, shooting tension through her leg with a searing pang. She focused her camera and waited for Barlow to trot into the frame with her owner. Click.
“Come show me what you can do.”
Her fingers twitched, and she exerted special care in returning her camera to the satchel. “What makes you think I know anything about lunging a horse?”
He laughed, and immediately she resented it.
“How’d you know it’s called lunging?”
No wonder he’d lured her all the way to the edge of the wilderness with his easy camaraderie. She could neither refuse nor feign ignorance. And if she stalked away like a petulant child, she’d have to drag herself to the house and hide away in the boys’ room for the rest of the day.
Very well. She pushed to her feet, testing her weight on her right leg, and pulled the satchel strap over her head so it lay across her chest. She’d show him a thing or two.
Chin high, she waited until the horse trotted past, then strode as best she could to his side and took the lead without waiting for him to hand it to her. How poorly he hid his humor with that flashing dimple. If she had a riding crop, she’d give him what for.
With a quick snap of her wrist, she set the mare into a canter, pivoting on her left heel as the horse wore a flattened circle into the grass. The long easy strides set the mare’s mane to waving, smooth and tangle-free. Pleasure pulled at Ella’s mouth and lifted her spirit.
Another signal, and the mare slowed to a trot and then a walk until she stopped and waited for Ella’s approval. Rather than berate the horse’s master for manipulating her into participation, she lavished affection and praise on the animal.
He thought he was so smart. If only she had a hunt seat and a few hedges. Better yet, she could easily clear that zigzagging fence line—
The cotton rope fell from her hand and she backed away, heart pounding. How had this cowboy stirred such fantasy? Made her long to ride again. To lift her face to the wind and fly on the back of a trustworthy mount.
Tears pricked like nettle and she turned toward the fence. Her soul ached as much as her leg, and the struggle to hide both wounds was nearly more than she could manage. She was trapped, surrounded by the beauty of this vast land of forest and ridge and unearthly blue sky—imprisoned by her failure to cope with her loss.
“Nice work.” The snap clicked and he came up beside her, coiling the lead as the mare’s hooves beat a muffled retreat. “What other secrets are you hiding beneath that shiny bobbed hair?”
She had no breath for words and shook her head, praying he’d let the conversation die.
He looped the coil over his shoulder again and pushed his hat off his brow. He smelled like horses, and her yearning grew. She’d been a fool to come West, into the heart of a country dependent upon the magnificent animals she’d once treasured and the men who rode them. Even more of a fool to accept Helen’s invitation.
“Like I said before, you’ve got a way with horses. You’re at ease with both Doc and Barlow.” His voiced dropped. “But not with yourself.”
She jerked her head around. “How dare you presume. You know nothing about me.”
He studied the scarred mountain beyond her shoulder, a similar mark forming between his brows, then slowly met her glare. “You were white as new canvas that morning in town. My guess is, you once rode but you’re afraid to now. Is it because you think you can’t?”
Her breath stuck in her throat when he hit the mark, and his words reverberated through her like a clanging triangle. The man had no facade whatsoever. He was as open and uncomplicated as the country in which he lived.
Unwilling to expose her soul, her pain, her longing, she crossed her arms with a shudder. What would it be like to live as openly and bare-faced as he?
Again the clanging, only this time it was real, and he shoved his hat down and held out his hand. “Dinner’s on. We best be getting back.”
She couldn’t move. Her right leg anchored her to the pasture. Once more she stood frozen in place, turned to stone by what raced toward her. “Go ahead. I’ll catch up to you. Just let me stand here a while and . . . and take in the view.”
His scrutiny unsettled her even more. Without taking his eyes from her, he turned his head slightly and whistled. Both horses trotted over, and the gelding nudged her shoulder, knocking her off balance and into his arms.
She caught herself against his chest, ready to berate him for such an underhanded tactic. But one hard hand splayed across her back, and the other gripped her upper arm. The heat of him unsettled her more than Doc’s shove, and his raspy words shot fire from the places he touched and into her very toes.
“I thought we’d ride back, but if you’d rather I carry you . . .” A wicked grin deepened the dimple.
She pushed away. “I think not. And I told you, I cannot ride.”
“I heard you.” He reached for her waist and without effort, lifted her to the mare’s back. She clutched her satchel and instinctively swung her leg over.
He clipped the long rope to the mare’s halter, and grabbing a handful of Doc’s mane, hauled himself atop the gelding. With a dare in his eye and a tug on his hat brim, he presented her with the rope and his challenge.
“Ladies first.”
~
Cale’s heart missed two full beats waiting for her to either slide off or ride off. When she dragged her fiery eyes from him, found her center, and heeled the mare, he could almost hear the wind rattle his ribs. She’d seared a hole clean through him.
Ella Canaday might have a hitch in her get-along, but like she said, appearances were deceiving. There was more to her than met the eye, especially where horseflesh was concerned.
He’d taken a mighty big chance, but after watching her lunge Barlow, the way she pivoted at first but eventually stepped into the effort and moved out of her rut, he knew she had what it took physically. But on the inside, there was no telling. Something held her back more than her weak leg, yet his gut had said she’d rise to the challenge.
She did.
She sat the mare as easy as a swing at a Sunday picnic, though her knuckles whitened on the rope and her jaw might crack if she didn’t ease up some. He was itching to ask her what happened, but he’d already pushed through where he wasn’t invited, and he wanted her short time at the ranch to be . . . well—good.
