Diamond Buckow (8 page)

He reached out a hand toward her, but the sight of a glistening tear stopped him cold.

“Buck,” Nancy all but whispered. “This is not the proper time or place to discuss such a matter.”

He stood still a moment, then pounded a fist against the palm of his other hand as he turned to Sarah.

“How does a man let his girl pay their way and still hang on to his self-respect? I want to take you and show you a good time, but what am I supposed to do?”

“Oh, Buck, please,” Sarah whined, her tiny pink mouth setting in a pout.

Then something in her tone, something about the tilt of her head, changed. It made him think once more of his sister when she was determined to have her own way.

“Buck, I really want to go,” Sarah wheedled. “If you won't take your rightful pay from Mrs. Blough, then please let me give you a small loan. You can pay it back later.”

Exasperated, he was saved a snappish retort as Nancy insisted solemnly, “After all, it is money due you. If Henry doesn't see to it, then I must. I know how to handle my husband, Buck. Even though you're my friend, there are certain things between marriage partners that you dare not become involved with.”

“I realize that,” Buck said, leveling a straight look at her. “And I'm sorry if I've been too forward. But, Mrs. Blough, I won't accept money from you.”

He began to pace and finally paused in front of the women with his hands spread out to them.

“Can't either of you see? Blough hired me, and it's up to him to make good. Nothing you could do would solve that problem, nor settle the debt he owes me for a lot of fair work.”

Sarah watched him in thoughtful silence, but after a long space, it was Nancy who spoke.

“All right, Buck. I have to respect your feelings. You know best what you have to do, so I'll go now and let you manage your own business with Henry.”

As she left the millinery, Buck sensed a great, deeply fathomed sorrow in his employer's wife. He guessed he still didn't understand her, or know all there was to know about her yet.

Turning back to Sarah, he commented, “It's too bad she's married to that old coot.”

“That's her problem,” she shot back in a tone that shocked him. He wondered if she didn't even care.

“Let her worry about it, I'm not,” Sarah went on. “We have our own troubles.”

“The lack of pay isn't all of it, either,” Buck muttered, leaning his elbows on the counter.

“Up 'til now I've lived in a small bunkhouse by myself. But today, the boss moved three others in on me.”

Sarah Ainsworth pursed her lips, balling her hands into fists, one on each hip.

“If Mr. Blough can't pay you, I don't see why he should be hiring more workers.”

Buck grimaced. “In the first place, he could pay me if he wanted to. In the second, he's not payin' these men. It comes out of Sheriff Driscoll's office. One's wearing a badge, name of Newt Yocum. Old Man Blough is always complainin' about cattle rustlers, so this is his answer.”

Sarah frowned, puzzled. “What do you mean?”

“Blough and Wide Loop Thompson got this Yocum fellow appointed deputy. Now he's living at our ranch, him and a couple of his helpers that don't have sense enough to come in out of the rain. The three of 'em ride around trying to figure out where all the disappeared stock from this range gets to.”

She nodded absently. “Now, how about the dance tonight, Buck? What would it hurt, when we both know you'll repay me as soon as you can? I don't know how long I can hold off going west with Pa, and I'd purely love to have one more good time before he drags me away. Please, Buck?”

He glared at her. “I thought you told me you could handle your father. That he'd give in.”

The musical innocence came back to Sarah's voice as she fluttered her long, curling eyelashes.

“Oh, I know I did. But now I'm not so sure. Lately he's been more insistent, and harder to fool.”

Gritting his teeth, Buck was about to say something angry when a strange woman poked her head around the wooden partition.

“Young man,” she sniffed. “If you would be so kind. This room is for ladies, and I have no intention of shopping with you here.”

His ears burning, Buck had forgotten where he was. He'd forgotten everything but Sarah and her odd effect on him.

“Yes, Ma'am, I'm sorry. Excuse me.”

He turned tensely to the blond clerk. “I'll be out front when you get off work. I mean to say some more to you, Sarah Dawn Ainsworth.”

His eyes glittered a warning as he spun around and hurried from the store.

The clock on the fireplace mantel chimed twelve times. Buck raised his head, startled. Midnight! He had to leave. Sarah dared not be away from her own room when her father came home. They'd left the square dance over an hour ago, and had come to the seldom-used parlor of the rooming house where she and Ainsworth were staying. Gently, he bent over to press his lips on hers in a good-night kiss.

Buck had been hot with anger and humiliation when he stormed out of the millinery earlier. He felt shamed, unmanly, to be tom between refusing to take Sarah out and being forced to borrow money from her in order to go.

But all those feelings were drained off by the vigorous dancing. That, plus Sarah's coquettish wiles, had mellowed him considerably. An entirely different kind of warmth surrounded him as his mouth lingered on hers.

These past several minutes, Sarah had been ladylike and cool. But suddenly she seemed to notice the change in Buck's ardor. Her arms went around him, pulling him close against her, and her manner turned bold.

When her body arched up, molding itself to his, Buck felt the pleasurable heat within him grow. As if by instinct, his hands groped for the stiff fasteners at the back of her dress while his lips slid from hers and down to her white throat.

A low moan of desire escaped her, cut off roughly by an abrupt and loud banging at the front door. They sprang apart, Buck snarling and swearing under his breath. The knocking increased.

Then a familiar drunken voice demanded, “Sally? Sally girl! Come on, I've lost my key. Goddamn it, Sally girl, come let me in or I'll wake up the whole house.”cs

An insistent rattling continued at the latch.

Sarah quickly untangled herself, smoothing down her clothing and her hair.

“Buck,” she whispered, instantly calm and practical. “You stay right here while I let him in. He'd never suspect anyone was using this parlor. After I get him up to his room, you can slip out and no one will be any the wiser.”

Without waiting for an answer, she stood up and moved away.

Buck sat as if numb, only dimly aware of the slight commotion in the hallway and their bumping up the rickety steps. Still in a state of unsatisfied passion, he finally realized he'd been there alone a long time. The rooming house was silent.

Had Sarah said she'd come back? He couldn't remember. He decided she wouldn't, and felt around on the floor for his hat. Finding it after a minute, he jammed it on his head and left, not sure where he was headed.

Furious in the night air, Buck pondered what he should do. He hadn't any place in town to stay, and, considering the lateness of the hour and the lightness of his pockets, there was no way he could rent a room. He didn't want to ride home to Henry Blough's ranch just now, and yet, maybe he
should
leave town for awhile. After what he'd tried to do, Sarah would probably think twice and never speak to him again.

God, what a fool he was. Why couldn't he control himself? It might've been better if he and Sarah had done it. At least that way she'd have talked to him again. He wondered how much one of those soiled doves would cost.

Buck dug deep in his pocket, looking for what was left of Sarah's loan money. Just a handful of small change, not nearly enough. A good thing, too, he had to admit reluctantly. If he were to go to one of that kind, he knew he'd feel dirty for one hell of a long time. He considered Rebekah for a moment, wondering if his sister
had
turned out that way, and what sort of man she'd give or sell it to.

Suddenly, Buck felt better about the whole thing. Well, hell, he theorized cheerfully. If there wasn't enough for anything else, at least he could get a beer or two.

He went into the nearest saloon that was still open, not knowing or caring anything about the place or what kind of patrons might be there. Seeing a bar along the left wall and tables to the right, he went up to the half-empty length of varnished wood and plunked down a coin.

“Beer,” was all he said to the bartender.

Buck ignored how young he was and what little experience he'd had at drinking. Because he was hot and dissatisfied, he gulped down more than half the cool liquid the first time he raised the glass. It jolted him some, and he peered into the amber bubbles. Deciding he liked the strange sensation in his belly, Buck tossed off the rest and fished out money for another.

He was intently contemplating the second drink when someone moved in close on his right. Without looking up, he was about to tell the newcomer not to crowd him when another man to his left slapped him heartily on the back.

“Buck!”

He knew that voice.

“Buck, what in the name of hell are you doin', standin' alookin' into that beer like you'd lost your boss and sixgun?”

He turned to stare at the speaker, instantly grinning and thrusting out a hand to shake.

“Good to see you, Russ. You appear a sight better'n when I saw you last. Leastways now you ain't as hung over.”

Glad to run into his old riding partner, Buck forgot all about the other fellow, who had squeezed in too close to his space.

The trail hand grunted in response, pointing from the beer to Buck's beltline. “Go ahead. Put that brew where it belongs, and I'll buy you another.”

Buck downed it, grateful to hear friendliness in another man's voice. Damn it all, just to have somebody to talk to.

He guessed maybe a loner's life wasn't for him as Russ slid a glass over in front of him and asked, “Did you get that job you was a-lookin' for last time I seen you?”

“Yeah, I sure did, but the luck hasn't been good. How about you, still riding for...the same outfit?”

Russ's face and voice set in a cautious way. “Well, you know how it goes. An hombre's got to do something.”

Then he smiled more like himself as a new thought struck him.

“Say, I'll never forget that man who gave you directions in the restaurant that time. Some funny handle, I recall me and you talked it over. I wasn't sure as to could you trust him or not. Did he steer you straight?”

“His directions were right on target.”

Buck shook his head over the chain of events. His tongue a little loose from the beer, he told Russ more than he would have by daylight.

“His handle was Wide Loop Thompson, and he's the richest rancher in these parts. He's the head honcho at the Double P. When he ain't around to hear, the pokes call it the Pied Piper.”

“Yeah?” Russ sipped at his whiskey, lifting a quizzical eyebrow. “How come?”

“On account of he won it in a poker game when it was nothing but a half-fallen-down log cabin with a few scattered head of cattle. Well, it seems that all the mavericks for miles around just sort of got attracted to Thompson's rope. P.P. brands sprouted on them like flowers blooming in the spring. Now Wide Loop's got the biggest operation in these parts, and him and the cheapskate I work for run this range between them.”

Russ sighed. “Sounds like you ain't too happy with the job, now you've got it. He got a segundo who's a-givin' you a hard time?”

“No,” Buck snapped, anger darkening his eyes.

“The fool doesn't have a foreman. I'm the only cowhand he's got. He's too tight to pay me what he owes me, much less hire enough hands to do the job right. I see two-year-olds with slick ears regular. Never had a rope on 'em, nor got decent care. I'd bet Wide Loop is still growing at my boss's—Old Man Blough's—expense.”

Russ drummed his fingers on the bar. “Well, I guess his tactics ain't that important to me or you. But a rancher not payin' your wages—that's serious. You was better off a-ridin' for Glenn. At least you got your money when you was through.”

Something in Russ's tone jarred Buck back to thinking about the man who had sidled up to his right elbow a few minutes earlier. He sneaked a sideways glance. Glenn Saltwell smiled slowly, his voice low and smooth like the purring of a cat.

“Greetings, Buck. Now, don't get your dander up. I can help you, you know.”

Buck whirled to face the rustler, his eyes blazing like firearms.

“How in hell could a thief—?”

Saltwell laid a restraining hand on his ann. “Careful what you say. We're in a public place.”

The words were so level and civilized that a person could easily have missed their veiled threat. Buck didn't, and Glenn knew it as he stretched that long smile like a lazy curving river across his face.

“After all,” he added, “I wouldn't want just anybody to eavesdrop and get the wrong idea.”

He spoke around Buck's back to his trail man. “Russ, ask the bartender for three glasses and a bottle of good rye whiskey. You can bring it to our table.”

Saltwell tried to urge Buck over to a dim corner, but Buck resisted stubbornly.

“I don't think so. Thanks, anyway. I just aim to stay here and have another beer.”

“Hear that, Russ? He'd rather have another beer. Why don't you get him one, along with our rye?”

Buck opened his mouth to protest, but Glenn quickly interposed.

“Just listen to what I've got to offer, boy. That's all. Come on over, have your drink, and hear me out. Then, if you don't like the proposition, you're free to get up and walk out. It's only to your advantage—I can show you how to get your pay.”