A Change of Scenery, page 18
The screen door swung open and Jay strode through, importance stretching him to his fullest height. “Mr. Thorson says they’re leaving, Miss Ella. Says to hurry up if you don’t want to get left behind again.”
“I have never been left behind, Jay.” Her ire rankled, though not with the boy. “But that’s of no matter. Thank you for bringing me the message.”
He hesitated, shoved his hands in his front pockets, and addressed the toes of his scuffed boots with a quiet voice. “Be all right by Kip‘n Ty and me if you did get left behind.”
Her gaze flicked to Cale of its own accord, and she snatched it back, stooping to meet Jay eye to eye. “Thank you very much. I appreciate your offer, but I have a job to do. Maybe we’ll come back to Cañon City another time, and I can see you again.”
Without warning, he flung his arms around her and she dropped to her knees to keep from toppling. He smelled of sweaty little boy and broken heart, and all her longings for a husband and family rushed to the surface.
Just as suddenly, he broke away and dashed out the door.
Cale offered his hand, and she took it simply as a matter of balance in a shaky situation. But when she attempted to withdraw her fingers, he tightened his hold until she met his gaze.
His brow lay smooth above darkening blue, no worry creasing the ridge. No dimple stitching his rough cheek. He stepped closer. She might touch his face were he not holding her fingers so fiercely.
“Saturday.” The single word vibrated into her hand and up her arm. “I’ll see you Saturday.”
He smelled of grown-up man and hopeful heart, and she reminded herself that nothing awaited the two of them together. They came from opposite worlds, and she’d be returning to hers as soon as Mr. Thorson gave the word.
Cale’s world waited outside the screen door. But she faced a long train ride back to an unknown future.
She freed her fingers and her voice. “If we’re still here.”
He opened his mouth to say more, but clamped it shut, cutting off his berry pie-scented breath. Then he, too, scrambled out the door, pausing on the porch to grab his hat.
From the window, she watched his long strides devour the distance to the corrals, where he tightened Doc’s cinch, swung into the saddle, and headed away from the barn. Without a glance to his right or his left, he angled toward the distant ridge he’d pointed out that day in the pasture. She imagined what it must look like there atop the rocky spine that snaked above the valley. No doubt it offered a good view of the ranch, the road to town, and much more of this beautifully rugged country.
A frown tugged her brows. She was learning things about herself that were not necessarily welcome, a completely unexpected offshoot of this venture. She had not set out to view her internal workings, but, rather, the West. The wide-open, unaffected spaces. The imposing Rocky Mountains that jutted so brutally from the plains.
Instead, she’d just confirmed that she was, in fact, a gambler. Willing to wager, at least where a certain rancher was concerned.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
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.
