A Cowboy Christmas Page 4

  “Did Mr. Howard mount a search for the stallion?” Hubert asked.

  Reid shook his head. “By the time Arlen got around to telling him about the rustler, the tracks would’ve drifted over.”

  “The thief chose a perfect time.”

  That he had. Reid never expected Kincaid would steal his prize stallion right off his ranch. Now if that wasn’t rubbing his face (and pride) in a cow pie, he didn’t know what was.

  “Should I inform the cook of your dinner preference?” Hubert asked.

  “Whatever she wants to dish up is fine by me.” He’d been content with Moss’s whistle berries, sowbelly and soda sinkers.

  “Very well, sir. Will there be anything you require? Perhaps a brandy.”

  “I’ll take you up on that later,” Reid said. “Right now I aim to have a long talk with the hands. Since Kincaid found it so easy to walk off with one horse, he’ll likely return for another.”

  Hubert’s owlish eyes remained as emotionless as ever. “I hope that the thief has the sense to keep the horse stabled in this weather.”

  Reid hoped the same as he shrugged into his sheepskin coat. He headed for the back door, his bootheels hammering the floor, mirroring his anger. He had to make peace with the two men he’d wronged so badly, and so far he hadn’t had a lick of luck locating them.

  In the six months he’d been back here, he’d watched his herd of prize thoroughbreds thunder over the high plains, kicking up a cloud of dust.

  And sometimes, when that dun grit settled, he saw a young woman lying in the middle of a dusty street, her calico skirts fanned around her as a red stain spread across her chest. He’d never seen her lifeless eyes, but he’d damned sure remembered the condemning ones of the sheriff.

  He hung his head. Remorse mingled with the old anger that had never truly left him.

  He’d struck a devil’s bargain to save his hide, and ensure the two men he called brothers weren’t dragged into his nightmare. But he’d been lied to from the start. He hadn’t realized how deeply he’d been deceived by Burl Erston until he’d returned to America six months ago.

  Kirby was dead. Dade and Trey had vanished, accused of rustling cattle off the ranch, which had to be a damned lie. And Burl Erston held the controlling shares of the Crown Seven in his tight fist.

  He’d known then that righting that wrong wouldn’t be easy. It may prove impossible with a marshal out to make his mark and an old outlaw determined to even a score.

  As he passed the kitchen door, he caught a glimpse of Miss Cade staring forlornly at the stove. He had the distinct feeling she was miles out of her element. She wore much the same look that he’d seen staring back at him in a mirror since the shooting.

  Don’t go looking for trouble.

  Miss Cade could just as easily be piqued about the quality of the cooking contraption or the scarcity of needed goods in their larder. Whatever was amiss, Hubert could see to it.

  Reid pushed out the back door and turned up his collar. A gust of bitter wind stole his breath and forced him to struggle with each step.

  The coat of fresh powder blew sideways in a blinding curtain. No doubt about it, he’d gotten back here in the nick of time.

  He grabbed the rope line at the end of the terrace and followed it toward the hazy shape of the outbuildings. Bits of ice pelted his face and stung his eyes, but his ire failed to cool. By the time he reached the long, low bunkhouse he was spitting mad.

  He’d warned his crew time and again to guard those thoroughbreds. Somebody had let him down, and that somebody had better have a damned good reason for being derelict in his duty.

  He pushed into the mess hall that smelled of rich meat juices, spice and working men. Eight pairs of eyes focused on him with myriad degrees of annoyance at having their supper interrupted.

  He put his weight against the door to close it and stamped the snow from his boots.

  “Pears you brought in an avalanche,” Moss said in that scratchy voice that held a hint of pain.

  “It’s coming down again,” Reid said.

  “Park it on a bench while I fetch you a plate of stew.”

  “Coffee will be enough for now.” Reid ambled to the table and lifted a hand to stop his foreman, Howard Booth, from vacating his seat at the head of the long table. “I want to know everyone’s whereabouts when Kincaid stole my stallion.”

  “We were on the trail of a wolf pack,” Neal said, and indicated two other punchers who nodded agreement.

  “I was busting ice so the cattle could drink,” another hand said.

  Shane flicked him a worried look that raised his suspicions. “One of the support posts on that lean-to snapped and brought down the roof.”

  “We lose any cattle?”

  “Nope, but they scattered to hell and gone.” Shane took a long sip of his coffee. “Took the rest of the day rounding them up again.”

  “Was the post rotted?” Reid asked.

  “Nope.” Shane ran his thumb around the rim of his coffee cup, as if drawing the moment out. “It’s possible the cattle leaned into it and it snapped. Possible that somebody threw a line around it with the intentions of dragging it down.”

  Understanding dawned. “But the wood gave first.”

  Shane shrugged. “It made a damned fine diversion.”

  “Kincaid’s handiwork,” Reid said, and the men grunted and bobbed their heads in agreement.

  “I had the hands run the herd into the paddock while I stabled Etain, Tara and Grania,” Howard said, muddling the mares’ Gaelic names as always.

  Thoroughbreds straight from Ireland, dams to Reid’s racing dynasty that he’d bought after selling Cormac’s brother for a trifling fifteen thousand dollars. Unlike those American-born stallions, his mares’ dams and sires were listed in The English General Stud Book.

  Two were with foal. Tara was due for a season, and he’d told the men to keep Cormac away from her. All to keep the pedigree pure.

  Now the stallion he’d hoped to sell in America was stolen, and he damned sure didn’t have the money to replace him. The loss of that income dashed another dream of his to hell.

  Reid ground his knuckles against the homemade table and ignored the stab of pain veining across his hands. He stared out at the ranch he’d thought was well-guarded. To think that old rustler had walked off with one blooded horse.

  No, not a mere rustler.

  Kincaid was a man bent on revenge.

  Reid had thrown out bait, and the old rustler had rowed in on the river of bad blood that flowed between them.

  He wasn’t surprised. Kincaid wanted retribution for being blamed for a murder he swore he hadn’t committed.

  But the fact that he’d taken Reid’s horse was a clear sign that he knew he was Slim, the drunken cowpoke who accidentally shot a woman in Laramie two years ago. Maybe Burl had lied about paying to keep his real name secret. Maybe Reid hadn’t changed as much as he’d thought, though he surely felt like an entirely different man.

  For damn sure Ezra Kincaid aimed to get his pound of flesh out of Slim’s hide. Well, Reid sure wasn’t about to make it any easier for him than he already had.

  Reid had done his time for a crime he didn’t remember by going to England and agreeing to Burl Erston’s demands. But he hadn’t counted on Erston holding a rustling charge against his brothers over his head if he failed to do his bidding.

  “I need to check on the horses,” he said to Booth.

  His foreman downed the last of his coffee and pushed to his feet. “I was just heading that way. Wouldn’t be surprised if Grania didn’t foal tonight.”

  He wasn’t surprised. The change in the weather and herd change would make a temperamental dam even more skittish.

  Shane caught his attention. “I put that post in the barn. See what you make of the marks on it.”

  “I’ll head over there first,” Reid said and moved to the door.

  “You fetch Mrs. Leach’s friend from town?” Moss asked as Reid reached f
or the latch.

  He got a grip on the cold iron and remembered that forlorn look on Ellie’s face when he’d left the house. “Yep. When I left, she was in the kitchen.”

  “It’ll take a spell to get a decent meal on.” Moss hefted a porcelain dinner pail. “Got enough stew in here to fill your gut tonight. All she’ll have to do is whip up a batch of biscuits. If you want my help, that is.”

  It sounded good to him on this cold, bleak afternoon. “Much obliged. I’ll take it up after I see to the horses.”

  Moss stepped back with his offering. “I can do it. Hell, I intended to head up there anyway with a haunch of venison. One of the boys went hunting today.”

  “Fine by me.” Reid tugged his Stetson down and turned his collar up. “Tell Miss Cade I’ll be up for supper in about an hour.”

  “I’ll sure enough let her know,” Moss said.

  Reid stepped out into the biting wind and pelting snow and damned his bad luck. Booth followed and they soundlessly trudged to the barn.

  Their boots crunched the hard pack and the wind howled at their backs. It sickened Reid to think of the outlaw running the thoroughbred stallion in this treacherous weather. One slip on the ice could end the horse’s life.

  He’d kept them guarded the past six months, but now it seemed impossible. Though the horses signified the break he needed to start over, he couldn’t ask any man to suffer this weather to keep an eye on them.

  He could only hope if it was too bitter for his men to be out, it’d be too severe for Kincaid to strike again too.

  He shouldered his way into the barn. Though cold, it was a welcome respite from the biting wind.

  Booth strode to a post propped against a pen. “Take a good look at this about a foot up from the bottom.”

  Reid crouched and inspected the fir pole. He saw what Booth and Shane had noticed right off. Bits of sisal were caught in the rough wood.

  “He used a rope, all right.” He glanced at Booth. “After creating a distraction, why just steal one horse? Why not drive the whole herd away?”

  “I wondered the same,” Booth said. “Maybe something or someone scared him off.”

  He nodded, but he doubted that was the reason. Nope, this looked more like a taunt to him. Kincaid wanted him to know they were vulnerable. He’d want him jumping at shadows.

  “I can’t imagine him striking at night,” Booth went on. “But I aim to keep an eye peeled on the stable and corral all the same.”

  “Don’t expect you to stay up all hours in this weather.”

  Booth laughed. “Part of the job, boss. I need to be on hand if that mare foals tonight.”

  Reid was grateful his foreman watched his prize thoroughbreds. Still, he wasn’t about to head indoors to the warmth and enticing woman until he checked out his horses.

  “Let’s go take at look at that mare.”

  After easing a molasses pie into a hot oven—the one dessert she felt confident enough to make—Ellie paced to the back door and stared out the frost-etched window at the expanse of white. She’d lived in Denver for a decade, so she wasn’t a stranger to snow. But in the city, the winter landscape was broken up with scores of buildings, street lamps, lights glowing from homes and businesses, and people traveling on foot or in all manner of conveyances.

  There was always noise of some sort.

  Here, she’d never experienced such dense quiet. The only thing that broke the monotony of an endless white vista were the outbuildings standing dark and forlorn.

  A frustrated sigh rumbled from her. She’d jumped at the opportunity Mrs. Leach offered her for two reasons. She’d get to spend Christmas with her pa. And hopefully, she’d be able to talk him out of taking the law into his own hands, as Mrs. Leach feared he was about to do.

  Though her pa had known she was coming here, he’d stolen Mr. Barclay’s prize stallion and rode out of her life again.

  The old pain of abandonment needled her heart again. How silly of her to think her pa would be glad to see her. That he’d at least hold off rustling for a few days while they shared a brief reunion.

  She ran nervous fingers around her high, stiff collar. Would she ever see her pa again?

  She rubbed her brow, annoyed with herself for getting her hopes up. And she was mighty annoyed with her pa, for now she was stuck here among strangers and cast in the role of housekeeper and cook until Mrs. Leach returned.

  That time couldn’t come soon enough.

  She took a deep breath and schooled herself to proceed as she’d promised to do. When her task was over, she’d take the train to California and the job awaiting her there.

  Until then, Mr. Barclay deserved no less than her best.

  Mrs. Leach had left her a sketchy map of the housekeeper’s domain, which helped immensely. A springhouse sat behind the house and a meat locker crouched nearby.

  But what eased her mind was finding a note from Mrs. Leach. The good woman had addressed it to her and hidden it inside the pie safe.

  In short, she told Ellie how she and the chuck cook worked in tandem regarding cuts of meat. All fresh game had to be requested, and then it depended on the luck of the hunter.

  When Mrs. Leach had left, there’d been a pork shoulder in the stone meat locker adjacent to the springhouse. Several inviting meals came to mind.

  If that meat was still there, she’d attempt to carve a few steaks. With the dried mushrooms she’d found in a tin, she could make a savory gravy to dress the panfried pork steaks.

  A few vegetables seasoned with spices and dressed with butter would make a passable first meal.

  But first she had to ascertain if they had pork. To do that, she had to brave the elements.

  “It is good to have such appetizing smells in the kitchen,” Hubert said from the doorway of the pantry, startling her. “Is there anything I can do to assist you?”

  She nearly made the mistake of asking him to go to the meat locker for her. No, if Mrs. Leach gathered her own ingredients for meals, she’d do so as well.

  “Everything is in order,” she said.

  He gave her that odd look again, as if he knew she was a fraud and stumbling through meal preparation. “Very well. I was a bit concerned when I noted you’d not begun dinner preparations.”

  She bristled up at that, hoping she appeared indignant instead of defensive. “I decided to bake a pie while I apprised myself of what was on hand. Now that I have, I’ll have supper on in short order.”

  “Excellent.” Hubert’s thin lips twitched with a hint of amusement. “Mr. Barclay will expect to dine promptly at five.”

  Thanks to being a clock-watcher, Ellie knew that gave her a bit less than forty minutes to have a meal on the table. While chicken-fried pork steaks and a medley of vegetables cooked on the stovetop, she’d put a whip on her just-baked pie and set the meringue.

  Yes, her first meal was very doable—if she didn’t have to fetch the meat from the locker. And if the pork was gone?

  Her stomach quivered at the thought of failing her first meal here. A simple vegetable soup seasoned with salt pork was sounding more appealing.

  She marched to the cloak she’d hung on the hall peg with the intentions of shrugging into it and striding out the door. She managed to swirl the fabric around her shoulders in a show of impatience when the back door burst open.

  A gust of icy wind swept down the hall and ripped her cloak from her hands. She yelped and grappled with the yards of fabric still cold from her long drive to the Crown Seven.

  Ellie’s head jerked up and her eyes surely went wide as saucers. For standing in the kitchen was an elf of a man from her dreams—short, rotund and swathed in a heavy red-and-black buffalo plaid coat.

  Snow clung to his white beard and mustache, and his round cheeks were rouged from the cold. His green eyes stared at her with disapproval that made her shiver.

  Ellie swallowed, unable to form words as she stared at the man. No, he couldn’t be. He couldn’t be that bold to steal a horse an
d return to the ranch.

  “Reckoned since ya’ll got in late I’d share my Irish stew,” he said in a rusty voice she didn’t recognize. “Though the only Irish in it is a touch of whiskey.”

  Her pa had changed drastically, packing so much weight on his wiry frame that he looked like a barrel. His black hair was now snow white, and a full beard hid his grizzled features.

  Her heart set off on an icy race. No, he looked nothing like the father she’d known, nor did he resemble the man on the wanted posters nailed in jails across the west.

  If not for his sour expression, he’d pass for the jolly old elf Santa Claus.

  Somehow she managed to move forward to take the offered pail from him. “Thank you for sharing your bounty.” And for finding a reason to come to the house, though his darkening frown wasn’t at all heartening.

  “I’ll set it on the stove,” he said and took off in that direction before she could object.

  She should have followed him into the kitchen, but she couldn’t force her legs to work. Of all the reunions she’d imagined, this one had never occurred to her.

  Surely he recognized her. Perhaps he was simply being cautious with Hubert in the house. Perhaps he truly wasn’t pleased to see her again after all these lonely years.

  He returned to where she stood in the hall. She noted his halting gait and wondered what had happened to him. The years had turned him into someone she barely recognized. Even his voice was scratchy, as if speaking took great effort.

  She longed to step into his embrace and lose her breath from his bear hug. Even if his demeanor welcomed it, she didn’t dare make such a bold overture with Hubert bearing down on them.

  “I thought I heard voices,” Hubert said, insinuating himself into this awkward moment. “Allow me to introduce Mrs. Leach’s friend, Miss Cade.”

  “How do, miss,” her pa said, his green eyes warming a bit.

  Hubert made no sign of noticing as he continued with his formal introductions. “Miss Cade, this is Gabby Moss, the chuck cook.”

  At least she knew what to call him now. “How good to make your acquaintance, Mr. Moss.”

  If he felt as awkward as she, it didn’t show. “The men went hunting today and bagged a couple of prairie chickens and a deer. I’ve dressed both and hung them in the meat locker.”