Maverick Heart (26 page)

“What?”

“Ten-cent fine every time you throw a grayback on the floor without pinchin’ it dead first,” Sully explained.

Pants rats? Graybacks?
Rand had no idea what they were talking about, but he didn’t want to show his ignorance. He watched Frog scratch, reach inside his long red underwear and retrieve a bug, pinch it, and drop it over the edge of the bed.
Good God! Lice!

Rand felt like blurting that he didn’t have lice, but that might have insinuated that he was somehow different or better than the others, who all apparently accepted the warning as appropriate to a newcomer. He kept his mouth shut. This daunting experience was not dissimilar from his first days at Oxford, when upperclassmen at Trinity College had intimidated the new arrivals, frightening them with rules and regulations and customs that they would invariably violate—only to be castigated severely for their failings. Rand wondered what form of punishment these roughened outcasts would exact from him.

He dragged off his Hessians and removed his
kerseymere trousers and the navy blue wool shirt Miles had loaned him before sliding onto the mattress and spreading a blanket over himself. Then he turned on his side and surveyed the inhabitants of the bunkhouse.

Tom and Cookie sat at a table near the fire playing with a greasy deck of cards, while Sully lay on his bunk reading a well-thumbed volume of Robert Burns’s poetry. Chip was playing dominoes. Frog was picking lice from his clothing.

Pickles was spitting tobacco juice at a brass spittoon ten feet from the bed, missing about a third of the time. Red was shaving his head in front of a cracked mirror with the largest, sharpest knife Rand had ever seen.

He must have been more tired than he thought, because the next thing he knew Cookie was banging a pot and shouting “Rise and shine!”

He bolted upright but realized immediately it was still pitch black outside. There was, however, plenty of light from a lantern hanging on the wall nearby to see the snake, its head raised and its tail viciously rattling, coiled at the foot of his bed.

He sat paralyzed, staring at the rattler—which was probably what saved him from being bitten. He swallowed hard. Beads of perspiration formed on his forehead and above his lip. His tongue slipped out to catch a salty drop and the snake weaved and rattled threateningly.

His brain was racing, looking for a way to escape the situation without getting bitten by the snake, which was obviously poisonous, or resorting
to the humiliating alternative of begging the men to rescue him. Outside his range of sight—and a safe distance from the snake—he could hear the cowboys slapping their sides with laughter. Some joke! He was liable to end up dead.

On another level he knew this was a test, like the time Dickie Featherstone had held him out his third-story bedroom window at Trinity by his ankles, threatening to let him go unless he pleaded for mercy. The problem was, if you begged for mercy they let you back in, but they never let you forget it. He had dared Dickie to drop him and had actually kicked one foot free before Dickie got scared he was really going to fall and pulled him back in. They had been fast friends ever since.

Rand’s hands had reflexively clutched the blanket, and he realized suddenly how he could escape his peril. With a quick flick of his wrists he snapped the blanket, sending the snake flying into the midst of the laughing cowboys. They yelped in surprise and scurried in all directions. A second later Rand landed feet first on the floor, grabbed the gun from a holster hanging from an upper bunk, and shot the head off the snake just as it coiled to strike at Red.

The gunshot was deafening in the small room. It took a moment for the commotion to cease and for everyone to realize that no one was hurt and the snake was dead.

Rand settled Tom’s gun back in its holster, walked calmly over to the snake, and picked it up by the tail to admire it. The diamond pattern was
actually quite beautiful. “I’ve been wondering where you fellows got the snakeskins for those fancy hatbands. Thanks for finding one for me.”

The cowboys stood for a moment slack-jawed before Frog slapped his knee and said, “Guess he got us, boys.”

Red slapped Rand on the back. “Shoulda seen the look on your face when you saw that snake. Thought I was gonna die laughing!”

“I just thought I was going to die,” Rand admitted with a crooked grin.

The cowboys guffawed again.

Rand held the five-foot-long headless snake out in front of him with forefinger and thumb. “Anybody have any idea how to separate the skin from the snake?”

Red took the snake from him and pulled out his knife. “Here, I’ll do it for you.”

Rand was still shaking, but none of the cowboys seemed to hold that against him. Only Tom still kept his distance.

“I hope you don’t mind that I borrowed your gun,” Rand said.

“Just don’t make a habit of it,” Tom replied. “How did you know I keep a bullet chambered?”

“I didn’t.”

“Damned lucky shot,” Tom said.

Rand didn’t contradict him. Better they should think him a lucky shot than find out how good he really was and challenge him to some hair-brained shooting contest like Harry Frazier had done. “Yes, really lucky,” he murmured.

But luck had nothing to do with it. Most of his friends had spent time every year at the family hunting box in the country shooting whatever game was in season. Since Rand had always preferred to be anywhere but where his father—Chester Talbot—was, he had accepted every invitation he got—and become an excellent shot.

He accepted the snakeskin from Red, found a place to lay it where he wouldn’t have to look at it again anytime soon, and went back to bed.

The next morning, Miles joined Rand at the trestle table in the bunkhouse where the men ate their morning and evening meals and asked, “How was your first night in the ram’s pasture?”

Everyone stopped, spoons and cups poised, while the cowboys waited for Rand’s answer.

Rand was still trying to understand what Miles meant by
ram’s pasture
. When he figured it out, he grinned. That exactly described the atmosphere he had found in the bunkhouse—men with not much more on their minds than females, eating, and butting heads.

“The bed was fine,” Rand said at last. “I slept like a log.”

The men resumed shifting in their seats, forks clattered, and cups were set down. The green pea hadn’t done badly.

Miles slanted Rand a measuring glance. “You sure there were no problems? Thought I heard a shot about two o’clock this morning.”

Silence descended around the table once again.

“Oh, that was just me killing a snake for my
new hatband. Cookie woke me up and Frog pointed it out and Tom loaned me his gun and Red was kind enough to skin it out for me. Real nice bunch of fellows you have working here, sir.”

The men exchanged sideways looks and knowing nods. Rand had passed another test. A cowboy never complained. He kept his trouble to himself.

“How about some Arbuckles to go with your biscuits and whistleberries, Randy?” Cookie said.

As simply as that, Rand had a nickname. It was another sign of his acceptance by the cowboys.

Rand didn’t have a chance to answer before Cookie poured him a cup of something thick and black and ladled a spoon of something else into a bowl in front of him. He watched Cookie fill the other men’s cups from the same speckled blue pot. He lifted his cup, sniffed, then took a swallow.

Arbuckles
turned out to be coffee, thick as tar and twice as disgusting. It woke him up and caused him to want to empty his bowels, which was, he supposed, the purpose of it. Whistleberries—he chuckled when he thought about it—were beans.

That was how Rand began his apprenticeship as a cowboy. He was tested again and often during the next few days, in ways that were equally dangerous. It was Tom’s idea to rimfire a green bronc and put Rand on it. It was Sully who actually found the cocklebur and put it under the saddle blanket before he pulled the cinch tight on the half-broken mustang.

The instant Rand’s weight pressed the spiny bur
into the mustang’s back, the animal bucked high and came down stiff-legged. Rand landed face first in the dust of the corral. It was a wonder he didn’t break his neck. In fact, he reinjured his shoulder. He ignored the pain and got back onto his feet.

The cowboys sitting around the corral fence, which included Miles, watched to see whether Rand would lose his temper or, even worse, refuse to get back on.

Rand did neither. He took one look at the white-eyed animal with its ears laid back and said, “I think this poor fellow probably has a bellyache from having the cinch too tight. Let me loosen it up a little and give it another try.”

Of course, when he loosened the cinch and rearranged the saddle on the blanket he found the prickly bur that had caused the problem. “Why, look here,” he said as though amazed at what he’d found—though he wasn’t amazed at all, because Archie McMahon had pulled the same trick on him when he was ten. “A bur must have got caught in the blanket.”

He pulled it free, flicked it over his shoulder, retightened the cinch, and remounted the bronc. It was a diabolical creature, stiff-rumped and vicious, and Rand landed twice more in the dust before he finally rode the mean out of him.

It was soon clear Rand had once again earned the cowboys’ respect, if not their actual admiration. He caught Miles looking at him with approval, but he turned his back on his father when
he started toward him. He didn’t need or want Miles Broderick’s approbation.

But he didn’t particularly want to kill him anymore, either.

Rand had been well enough for at least a week to challenge Broderick to a duel and avenge his mother’s honor. But, Rand was neither stupid nor blind, and it hadn’t taken him long to realize his mother was in love with the man. During the long hours they had spent confined in bed recuperating, she had several times sung Broderick’s praises, until Rand had been forced to pretend sleep to shut her up.

And he was not unaware of the special effort his father was making to befriend him.

Miles had taken him on a tour of the ranch, pointing out landmarks and explaining how Rand could always find his way back to the bunkhouse if he was careful to look over his shoulder at where he had come from every so often to make note of the terrain.

Rand had listened, saying nothing, using as his excuse for his silence the fact that Broderick had told him to keep his eyes open and his mouth shut. But he was not immune to the fact this was his father. He saw himself reflected back in Miles’s familiar gray eyes.

He felt Broderick’s frustration … and his pain.

“You’re handling yourself well with the men,” Miles had said.

Rand had felt an odd clutch at the compliment,
the first one he’d had from his father. It was more than he had ever gotten from Chester Talbot.

“Thank you, sir,” he had replied.

“I’m going deer hunting later in the week. Would you like to come?”

More than anything, Rand had wanted to accept that invitation from his father. But he didn’t want to get to know or like Miles Broderick any better. Not if he might have to kill him.

“No, thank you, sir,” he had answered.

Miles had tried to hide his disappointment, but Rand had seen it and felt bad for the man.

That was when he had made up his mind to confront Broderick and ask for his version of the story Talbot had told him. It had been on the tip of his tongue to ask his father what had really happened between him and his mother when Red had caught up to them. The cowboy had come to tell Miles about some fence that was down. All three had gone to repair it. The opportunity to ask questions and get answers had passed.

Rand had remained in a sort of limbo, unwilling to ask for the truth, afraid of what he would hear, unwilling to challenge Miles Broderick to a duel because, honestly, it wasn’t only for his mother’s sake anymore that he didn’t want to see the man dead.

While Rand spent his days learning the ropes as a cowboy, Freddy was learning the distaff side of life on a working ranch. And avoiding Rand whenever she could.

Rand had raised the subject of marriage within a day of his fever breaking, but Freddy had insisted they wait to discuss it until he was completely recovered from his wounds. He had tried to raise it again the day he moved into the bunkhouse, and every day since, but she refused to agree with him that they should make the trip to Fort Laramie to get married by the chaplain.

“I’m not ready yet,” she had protested.

“You can’t put it off forever, Freddy.”

“I need time, Rand.”

“For what?” he asked. “I love you, Freddy. I want to make you my wife.”

Freddy had felt like crying, his voice was so gentle, his kiss so fleeting and tender. She had been on the verge of agreeing to wed him when he made the mistake of saying “I won’t take no for an answer, Freddy. You have no choice in this.”

If only he hadn’t said it quite like that. She was pretty certain she was falling in love with Rand—if she wasn’t in love already. But she would never, could never, be happy married to a man who gave her ultimatums and expected her to obey them. And she wanted to make sure Rand understood that before she tied herself to him.

“You can’t make me marry you, Rand,” she said.

His jaw set. “I will if I have to, Freddy.”

“Just try,” she threatened. “And see what happens!”

She had stomped off, and they had been at loggerheads ever since. She had punished Rand by
flirting outrageously with the ranch hands. She focused on Tom, who seemed the most powerful and dangerous—and therefore the most attractive—because he walked around wearing a gun on his hip.

She saw Rand sitting on the corral, and he gestured for her to come over to him. Instead, she turned her back to him and, hips sashaying in her form-fitting trousers, headed into the barn, knowing full well that Rand knew that Tom was working there. Once inside, however, she didn’t seek out Tom. Instead, she sat down on a loose stack of hay with her legs tucked under her and began playing with a batch of four-week-old kittens.