Robin Lee Hatcher (8 page)

Vince carried the blanket and picnic basket to a place with a clear view of the house and church tent. She watched as he spread the blanket over the level ground, wishing all the while she hadn’t accepted his invitation.

“Here.” He held a hand toward her. “Let me help you.”

Sometimes, Bethany thought as she settled herself on the spread, her impetuous nature got her into terrible pickles. This was one of those times. She had no desire to encourage this man’s interest. He might be handsome and wealthy, and it might not be unusual for girls of eighteen or twenty to marry men in their late thirties — which he most certainly was — but she didn’t want him for a suitor. She wasn’t interested.

Because he isn’t Hawk.

Everything about Vince paled in comparison.

Dark, irritating, wonderful, enigmatic Hawk.

She sighed.

“Is something wrong, Miss Silverton?”

“What?” She looked at Vince, half surprised to find him still there. “Oh, no. I . . . I was daydreaming. I’m sorry.”

“No need to apologize.” He reached for the basket. “Let’s see what my cook has prepared for us.”

Hawk spotted Rusty Andrews’s sorrel in the distance, grazing at the edge of a draw, reins dragging the ground. But the Circle Blue cowpoke was nowhere in sight. Ever vigilant, Hawk drew his rifle from its scabbard and nudged his gelding into a canter, eyes scanning the countryside, looking for signs of trouble.

The riderless horse shied backward as Hawk drew his own mount to a halt. “Rusty?”

“Down here.”

He followed the sound of the cowboy’s voice and found him crouched over a dead cow in the dry creek bed.

“What happened?” He dismounted.

The cowboy looked up, his weathered face crinkling as he squinted into the sun. “Neck’s broke. Happened early this morning, I reckon.”

Digging his heels into the loose soil, Hawk descended into the draw. His eyes studied the area around the brindled cow. It hurt to lose cattle, especially after they’d made it through a rough winter.

“There’s tracks up there you oughta look at.” Rusty straightened, pushing his hat back on his forehead. “I think someone was driving her down into the draw.”

“Rustlers?”

“Probably.”

Hawk removed his hat and drew his shirtsleeve across his forehead, wiping away the beads of sweat.

“I tried to follow ’em, but the tracks disappear down the creek bed a ways.”

“How many riders?”

“Couple of them, it looks like.”

“Horses shod?” No shoes meant Indians. Shod meant white men — and maybe a bigger problem than just a few missing cows.

“Shod.”

Hawk looked again at the brindle. If the rustlers could have been followed, Rusty would have done it already. “Tell the boys to keep a sharp eye out for any signs of more unwelcome visitors.”

“I’ll tell ’em.”

The chances were slim they would find anything. Besides himself and Rand, the Circle Blue employed Rusty and two other cowboys. They were kept busy enough without looking for a trail left by rustlers.

But neither could Hawk let himself be robbed.

Rusty seemed to read his mind. “With that new herd of shorthorns you got comin’ in from Oregon next month, you’re gonna be needin’ more men on this place.”

Hawk nodded.

“Matt says there was some boys in the Plains last night on their way to Miles City, lookin’ to hook up with an outfit on the Big Dry. Might see if you can still catch ’em.”

Hawk glanced at the midday sun. “Think I’ll do that. If I run into Rand, I’ll tell him to come give you a hand.” He climbed out of the draw, mounted his horse, and set off for Sweetwater.

NINE

Bethany smoothed her skirt over her knees and folded her hands in her lap, hoping her impatience didn’t show. Would her father never stop asking Vince Richards questions about Montana Territory? She longed to excuse herself from their company, but her parents would consider that rude.

Her hour by the river with Vince had been the most intolerable of her life. If only he would leave.

What she wouldn’t give for a solitary ride on Buttercup. To feel the sunshine on her face and the wind in her hair. To canter her buckskin mare across the rolling plains or walk her along the river’s edge. To be anywhere but here.

Finally Vince made a motion to leave. “Well, Reverend, it’s been a pleasant afternoon, but I must return to the Bar V.” He looked at Bethany. “I hope we can do this again, Miss Silverton.”

Smiling — not in response to his suggestion, although he probably thought so — she rose and wasted no time in leading the way to the front door.

As he stopped before her, he took one of her hands in his and lifted it to his lips. “You’re a charming companion, Miss Silverton.”

Uncomfortable, she withdrew her fingers from his grasp.

“The Bar V needs a young woman like you as its mistress.”

What arrogance! As if she would ever marry him, after one hour in his company or after a thousand. She quelled the desire to shudder. “Then I hope that you will find her, Mr. Richards.”

His voice dropped to a near whisper as he leaned closer. “
You
are that woman.”

She took a step back. “I assure you, sir, I am not she. I am not interested in finding a husband. You will have to look elsewhere.”

Vince straightened. “Don’t be so quick to reject me.” His smile contained no warmth. “I have a great future in this territory, and I want you to share it with me.” With that, he placed his hat on his head and left the house without a backward glance.

Standing in the open doorway, Bethany felt utter revulsion. She scrubbed the back of her hand against her skirt, trying to remove any trace of the man’s kiss. That would never happen again, she vowed. Never.

Piano music from the Plains Saloon drew her gaze down the street. Ingrid would be —

Her heart thudded when she saw the familiar saddle horse tethered outside the saloon. Hawk was in Sweetwater. He hadn’t come to church this morning, but he was in town now. In town and in the saloon, no less. She moved onto the porch and leaned against the railing, her anger with him forgotten.

Walk through those doors, Hawk, and look this way. Please. Come
out and see me on the porch.

But it didn’t happen. The laughter and the music wafted through the swinging doors, but no one entered or departed.

If this was what falling in love was like, it wasn’t the happy feeling she’d been told it was. She’d never been less happy in her life.

Hawk shook hands with the two cowpokes. “Matt here’ll show you how to get to the ranch and where to bunk. Glad to have you with us, Caleb. You too, Westy.”

Caleb Moore had worked a cattle drive with Hawk back in ’76. He was a good hand and would fit in well at the Circle Blue. And while Hawk didn’t know Westy, the man had a look about him that spoke of experience on the range.

“You comin’, Hawk?” Matt pushed away from the bar.

“Not yet. Thought I’d wait and ride back with Rand if I can find him.”

Matt flashed a crooked grin. “You’ll probably find him at the parson’s house. Been there all day, far as I know.”

“You sure?”

“His horse is tied out back by the tent. He’s sweet on that Miss Johnson in a bad way.” Matt motioned for Caleb and Westy to follow him, and they left the saloon.

Hawk stood alone at the bar, undecided what to do next. When he’d ridden into Sweetwater about an hour ago, he’d recognized the carriage hitched outside the Silverton home. Was it still there? He doubted Vince Richards was there for spiritual guidance, which left only one other reason for the man to be there this long after the church ser vice ended. Bethany. Richards’ interest had been made clear at the barn dance. This just confirmed it. Hawk shouldn’t care, but he did. He didn’t like the idea of Vince Richards hanging around Bethany. She was too good for him.

Hawk had a lot of reasons to distrust the man. Vince had been after the Circle Blue ever since he came to this part of Montana and built the Bar V. Hawk wasn’t fooled by his veneer of civility and manners. He was ambitious and ruthless — a dangerous combination.

He strode out of the saloon and looked east. The carriage was gone. Tension eased from his shoulders as he gathered his horse’s reins in his hand and stepped into the stirrup.

“I’ve got to be gettin’ back to the ranch soon.” Rand cast a furtive glance at Ingrid, walking by his side.

“I thought you might.”

“It’s been nice spendin’ the afternoon with you.”

“It was nice for me too, Mr. Howard.”

He stopped and reached out to lightly touch her elbow. “You think you could bring yourself to call me Rand?”

She blushed and dropped her gaze to the ground.

“I guess that’s not proper.”

“I would like to call you Rand.”

He loved the soft rolling sound of her voice. He wished she would continue to speak. Words weren’t easy for him to come by, especially sweet-talkin’ words. At the dinner table after church, it had been the reverend and his wife who kept the conversation alive. And even after he asked Ingrid to take a walk with him, he’d spent most of the time thinking of what he wanted to say without ever saying it.

He motioned with his head toward a grassy spot on the riverbank. “Care to sit a spell ’fore I take you back to the house?”

She nodded, a hint of pink returning to her cheeks.

He waited until they were settled. Then he cleared his throat. “Ingrid, I been driftin’ ever since I left Iowa back when I was a kid. I liked movin’ around, seein’ new things. Never thought of settlin’ in one place ’til I met Hawk.”

“You are a good friend to Mr. Chandler.”

“He’s about the best friend a man could ask for. I’d trust him with my life. I’ve had to a time or two.” He glanced at her, then looked away again. “Anyways, I got me a piece of land near the mountains. Nothin’ to ranch with. Just a spot to build me a house and barn of my own. Plenty of trees and a fine view of the range.”

“It sounds pretty.”

Not as pretty as you are
.

A fleeting smile crossed her lips, as if she knew his thoughts.

“I haven’t built nothin’ there yet. Seemed just as easy to go on bunkin’ with Hawk and the other boys at the Circle Blue.” He cleared his throat again. “But, here lately, I been givin’ it some thought. Seems like a good idea to get busy while the weather’s good. Wouldn’t be too fancy. Just a log cabin, but a place I could call home and . . . and the sort of place a woman might not mind callin’ home too.” His last words came out in a rush.

A lengthy silence followed. He couldn’t bring himself to look at Ingrid. He figured he’d made a mistake, that he’d spoken too soon. What would she want with some log cabin anyway? Look at the fine house where she lived. Why would she want to settle down with him?

It was as if she’d read his mind. “My papa and mama came to America from Sweden. We had a farm in Minnesota where I was born. When my mama died, my papa did not want to stay there. So he sold the farm. I have missed it. It was hard work, farming, but it was a good life.” She drew a deep breath and sighed. “The Silvertons have made me a part of their family, and I love them. But sometimes I feel too idle. I wish I were building something for myself as you are going to do.”