Plots and Pans (3 page)

“Sorry, Boss.” The ranch hand fell back a step, raising ham-like hands apologetically. “But ain’t no secrets in the bunkhouse. You’re taking Culpepper’s passing mighty hard.”

“I wouldn’t have guessed that a man who snores as loud as you do manages to keep track of who’s awake.” Tucker started walking, making Ralph back-step and get out of his way. The last thing he wanted to do was talk about Culpepper’s death—or his troublesome final bequest.

Ralph guffawed, white teeth flashing in his dark face, massive shoulders shaking with mirth. “All of us are rafter-rattlers. It’s best to fall asleep first, else you couldn’t pick out a single snorer from the bunch if you tried.” He made a good point—Tucker knew because he’d tried two nights ago, the first time in seven years when he hadn’t fallen asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow.

Not that he planned to tell Ralph, who kept hovering as he grabbed his saddle and headed to Happy Jack’s stall. Not appreciating Ralph’s interference but understanding what drove him, Tucker unbent a bit to say, “Hard work makes for deep sleep. I aim to out-snore everyone tonight.”

Ralph raised his brows but kept his mouth shut, retreating from the stables and getting back to his own horse. He’d mounted up again by the time Tucker rode up on Happy Jack. Even better, he didn’t say anything more as the two of them headed out in search of the distressed cow.

With the sun sliding down to meet the horizon, a breeze cooling the back of his neck, and a welcome exhaustion pulling at him, Tucker figured that tonight he’d beat the restlessness keeping him from a good night’s sleep. Since Culpepper’s passing, Tucker’s brain worked harder than his body—that was the problem. Lucky for him, spring meant the busy season, and after today he’d have worked hard enough to earn some peace—even if quiet wasn’t an option in the bunkhouse.

Tucker grinned at the thought and settled into the sway of Happy Jack’s walk. Not everyone would agree, but riding the range relaxed him. Something about the almost endless expanse of land, green grass shooting up to tickle a stormy sky, put him at peace. No buildings in sight, no train tracks taming the wilderness … just open earth and the quiet companionship of a fellow cowhand. Thunder banks rolled toward them from a distance, but they’d probably outpace the rain back home.

“Just up ahead now.” Ralph shifted in his saddle, veering toward the rain-swollen stream running to the left. Spring streaked the skies with lightning, deluging them with downpours in a haphazard and unsuccessful attempt to make up for the dry winter. This wasn’t the first cow to get stuck in a bog this spring, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last before the mud holes started to dry out.

Another couple of miles and Tucker spotted the lone calf, sloshing in mud up to its knees and edging around the deeper pit trapping its mother. At first he couldn’t make out the cow—mud caked her ears and muzzle. He knew Ralph wasn’t given to exaggeration, so Tucker wasn’t surprised to find she was in up to her eyes, having to tilt her head back to get some air and let loose piteous moans.

“She’s in a bad way, but calf’s well padded,” Tucker noted.

If the calf were nothing but bones, they’d know she’d been stuck for days, starving. Weakened, her bones wouldn’t be strong enough to withstand the mud’s suction without breaking, and the kindest thing would be to shoot her. Lucky for the cow, she hadn’t been in long before Ralph found her. Good news for the beeve—bad news for his afternoon. Rain or no rain, he’d be getting wet.

“I’ll go in.” Tucker dismounted and started stripping off layers. Hat, bandanna, coat, chaps, work shirt, boots, socks, and finally Levi’s hit the nearest patch of grass. Now down to his drawers, Tucker changed his estimation of the weather. Thunderheads had moved several miles in the past half hour, the wind had picked up, and its new bite warned they didn’t have long to get the job done.

Ralph was always first to volunteer, but for once the burly ranch hand didn’t protest about letting someone else, even the boss, do the dirty work. This time they both knew his mass made him a poor choice—he’d displace enough mud to drown the almost-buried beeve. With the calf’s pathetic lowing growing louder and more anxious, Tucker headed into the mud a ways away from the cow.

He cautiously worked his way deeper through the mud sucking at his toes, legs, and finally his arms until he reached the trapped animal. Her wide eyes rolled in panic, her neck straining against Tucker’s hand in a futile attempt to pull free. He crooned to the cow, running a palm down her shoulder and her side until forced to lay his own head in the muck. Only then could he find the indentation where her leg met her belly. Pulling his free arm from the mud with a sickening slurp, he caught the rope Ralph tossed over.

Rope in one hand, he plunged it into the mud, passed it behind the cow’s leg, and grabbed it with the other hand, performing a sort of sideways crab-walk so he stood in front of the animal. Moving fast so she wouldn’t butt him with her jaw, he passed the rope behind the other leg and up her other side. Then he knotted the lasso and repeated the entire maneuver with her back end.

Finally, he fought his way out of the sludge, mud sucking at his heels. Ralph tossed him a coarse blanket Tucker used for a rough towel-dry before swinging up into Happy Jack’s saddle. He wrapped the end of one lasso around the pommel as Ralph had done with the other, and together they backed the horses up. Slowly, squelchily, the cow emerged from the pit. Since they didn’t know how tired the cow might be, they kept backing up until the mud rose halfway above her knees. Then Ralph hustled over to undo the knots before she could free herself enough to kick him. If she hadn’t been rocking and pulling on her own, he would’ve looped a line around her neck to pull again. But this cow was on the move and finished sludging loose without further help.

In no time, she’d reached a clump of grass and lowered her head for a welcome meal. The calf raced to its mother, all gangly legs, knobby knees, and flying slobber. It slid in a slick patch and crashed into the cow’s side before righting itself and latching on for supper.

Ralph slicked mud from the ropes while Tucker unbuckled the blanket from his own saddle, cleaned up a bit more, and pulled on his gear. By now temps had dropped and the rain clouds lurked almost overhead, so they gave the horses their heads and ran for it until the outlying buildings of the ranch house came into view. Then they reined in to a more sedate pace. Any horseman worth his salt knew better than to give the horse his head back to the stables or they’d run wild.

By the time they’d put up the horses, the dinner bell sounded. Stomach rumbling, Tucker headed for the bunkhouse instead of the mess hall, determined to grab a few moments of privacy. Working fast with a bar of oatmeal-lye soap, he scrubbed away the remnants of the mud hole. All cattlemen expected to carry a certain amount of dirt and dust around with them, but dried mud itched something awful. Once Tucker could stand himself again, he went in search of supper.

By the dim light flickering from a handful of lanterns hung over the long tables, Tucker could see that he’d come too late. Charlie, the old-timer cattleman-turned-cook, stood in front of the fireplace dominating the far wall, dumping water into the already-empty stewpot. Cutlery and tin bowls smeared with gravy overflowed from the half barrel by the door. Biscuit crumbs spotted tables where the men, made peaceable by full bellies, lingered over coffee, cards, and checkers.

He should’ve known. Spring brought a trail of grub-line riders, workers riding from ranch to ranch for a few days’ or weeks’ worth of work in return for a bunk and three square meals a day. In addition to the Bar None crew, he saw two grubbers he’d given the go-ahead and three he didn’t recognize. Most likely they’d gone to the big house while he’d been out helping Ralph, and Ed approved them to settle in for the night and report to Tucker the next morning.

Most likely, but not necessarily. Sometimes grub-line riders made it a point of arriving just before supper or just before a storm, banking on ranch-land hospitality for a meal and a bunk. Then after breakfast or the storm passed—whichever lasted longest—they headed out before putting in a day’s work. Larger ranches, like the Bar None, left more room for these rascals to work their scam.

Just in case, Tucker needed to check with Ed. Stomach now rumbling loud enough to be mistaken for thunder, he left the mess hall and hit the big house at the same time as the downpour. Shutting the door behind him, Tucker scuffed his boots on the doormat and called out a greeting.

His “hello!” got a distant “Tucker?” in reply, which he followed down the hall to the dining room. There he found Ed, a lone figure dwarfed by the immense table. He couldn’t help but notice Ed’s overflowing plate and tried to ignore the way his mouth started watering as he drew close.

“Tucker!” Ed half rose out of his seat and made an expansive gesture. “Join me, will you?”

Neither of them could count the number of times Tucker turned down invitations to join Ed and his father for a meal at the big house. As foreman, he felt he belonged in the mess hall, rubbing shoulders with his men and keeping an eye on things. When the bosses got too comfortable or seemed too distant, things began to deteriorate in the bunkhouse. The men got restless or complacent, work slipped, and unless someone in charge caught it immediately, the ranch suffered.

But tonight Tucker didn’t have it in him to turn down a hot meal with the friend whose father had just died. Grief made something new to share with Ed, who’d always treated him like a brother and insisted on accepting him as a new business partner. Besides, Tucker’s stomach wouldn’t let him pass up anything edible at this point. He nodded and grabbed the nearest chair.

“Hang on and let me get Desta.” Ed shoved back from the table. “Last night she said she wasn’t hungry, but she needs to join us tonight. She always did when Dad was alive, and …”

“If me being here puts her off, I can come back.” Tucker ignored his belly’s protest. If the Culpeppers’ black housekeeper usually ate with the family, he wasn’t going to mess with protocol.

He didn’t know the woman, but he’d delivered a fair number of warnings to the ranch hands about steering clear of the pretty, light-skinned housekeeper. Her status as the only woman on the ranch, and a servant, mistakenly made some men think of her as fair game. Tucker found himself wondering every once in a while whether Jessalyn Culpepper would’ve caused those sorts of problems, but decided her position as the big boss’s daughter would cut back on that. From what little he’d known of Jessalyn, she would’ve managed to find other sorts of trouble instead.

Then again, she’d been a pretty little mite—all sun-kissed curls and freckles. Tucker couldn’t be sure how many times he’d done it before, but he winged up another little prayer of gratitude that Simon Culpepper had the sense to send his daughter somewhere safe. Safe for her, and safe for everyone at the Bar None. He and Ed agreed they couldn’t bring her back until after this season—and Tucker was more than happy to push back that problem until after the cattle drive this summer.

“She’ll be out in a minute.” Ed pulled his chair back up to the table, looked down at his plate, and heaved a deep sigh. Passing his palm over his face as though wiping away worry, he sprawled back against the ornately carved support of his seat. “Something I should tell you.”

“Shoot.” Tucker wondered whether Ed was having trouble dredging up the words to ask for his share of the ranch back. He’d happily sign it back over, but considering how Ed jumped all over him the last time he offered, Tucker wasn’t in any hurry to bring up the subject first.

“It’s Desta.” His friend leaned forward so fast his chair creaked. His voice dropped to a whisper. “Just found out when the lawyer went over Pa’s will. She’s not just the housekeeper, which makes sense. You’ll find out when you try to eat supper—made me wonder whether Pa …” He cleared his throat. “Well, that is to say, we never discussed … But since she got here, she always ate at the table with us. And she can’t cook a lick, so I figured there was some connection …”

“If she’s your secret stepmother, I won’t say a word against it.” Tucker took a wild guess to save them both from Ed’s hemming and hawing through a botched explanation. Though it didn’t sound like Simon Culpepper. The man he’d seen as a second father didn’t hide behind secrets.

“Naw.” Ed shook his head, still looking poleaxed. “She’s my aunt.”

Tucker felt his brows shoot up, but couldn’t find any right way to ask the obvious.

Luckily, Ed saved him from the struggle. “Half aunt, I should say. I guess the farm Grandpa lost in the war was bigger than Pa let on—more of a …”—he paused—“plantation?”

It didn’t take much to read between the lines on this one. Apparently Grandpa Culpepper owned slaves and made one of them his mistress. The fact that the scenario had been more or less typical for the times made it no less abhorrent, and Tucker’s tongue glued itself to the roof of his mouth. It wasn’t like he could congratulate his friend on finding a long-lost relative; she’d been living in his house for half a dozen years now. The real questions—whether it was her choice or her brother’s that they kept it quiet, and whether Ed would do the same—weren’t Tucker’s to ask.