Читать книгу Branded Hearts - Diana Hall - Страница 9

Front Range, Colorado, 1868

Garret Blaine rode straight into a ranch yard full of commotion. Cowhands crowded the corral, yelling out bids. Dollars spilled from their lifted fists.

“What the hell’s going on here?” He gave each of the Rockin’ G wranglers a calculated glare. Hellfire! First the news from town of rustlers in the area, and now this.

Cracker, the cook, ambled over, the afternoon sun shining off his bald head. His porcupine whiskers bristled as he spoke. “I told Cade you weren’t gonna like this.”

Cade! Garret should have known his brother would be at the center of any fracas. The rocker on their brand stood for his younger brother; a deck of cards would suit him better. Garret dismounted and threw his reins at the ranch tenderfoot, Davidson. With long, skinny limbs, big feet and sad eyes, the boy looked like a hound puppy as he scrambled to retrieve the leather reins.

Garret used his height and the width of his shoulders to cut a wedge through the crowd. Guilty looks flickered over the faces of the cowhands. Standing with his feet wide, his arms crossed, Garret faced his brother.

It was like looking in a mirror—ten years ago. Cade’s hair was a shade lighter than Garret’s sandy color, and his eyes more blue than green, but the attitude was the same—cocky and arrogant.

Leaning against the corral post, Cade tipped back his new Stetson and appraised his brother with a mildly curious stare. “Howdy, Garret. Good time in town?”

Garret ignored the question, his attention riveted on the tall man standing next to his brother. He was bare-chested except for a buckskin vest, and his tree-trunklike arms were corded with power. Scars crisscrossed a chest so wide that if he sighed, a man would feel the draft. His dark hair hung in two thick braids. Skin the color of burnished copper and eyes as blue as the Texas sky heralded the man’s heritage. Half-breed.

Power radiated from the big Indian. And Garret detected a carefully controlled savagery in the man’s stare. Garret asked, “What’s he doing here?”

Cade’s lips tightened, then his aggravating grin returned. “I hired him to break the black.”

Inside the corral, the wild mustang bellowed a challenge. He shook his coal-black mane, then reared back, his deadly hooves shaking the ground.

“I told you to break that horse.” Prickles of impatience skimmed down Garret’s spine. While he broke his back working, Cade wasted time gambling. But what should he expect? Growing up in a saloon wasn’t the best schoolroom to teach responsibility.

The half-breed straightened. His voice rumbled like thunder. “We seek work. Not trouble.”

“Them’s cowboys.” Cracker gave Garret a nod and spit out a long stream of tobacco juice onto the ground. “They rode in with hackamores.” More than a little awe colored the old-timer’s comment. Only the best riders guided their horses with just a rope bridle.

They? Garret scanned the crowd. Standing a few paces from the tall Indian, a slight figure held the reins of two horses. Despite the thick shirt and fringed leather jacket, the boy couldn’t hide his age. There wasn’t even a trace of peach fuzz on his chin! Just a scrap of dark hair could be seen beneath the slouched brim of the youngster’s hat.

The boy looked up. A gaze, the identical shade of the Indian’s, contemplated Garret. The two must be brothers. That shade of ice-blue was too rare for happenstance.

Suspicion pricked his reasoning. Two drifters arrive on the same day as news of rustlers. “I’m not hiring.”

Cade traced the outline of the brand burned into the corral fence post. Letting his finger rest on the rocker, he said, “I thought this rocker on our brand C stood for me. Guess not.”

For a year, Garret had lectured, threatened and scolded Cade about taking more responsibility. “The ranch’s half yours.”

“Then I figure I can do some hiring since the ranch is half mine,” Cade said.

The government contract to supply the army forts with horses and beef came up for bid this summer. The Rockin’ G rode a tightrope between poverty and prosperity. That contract would guarantee enough income that Garret could start to make improvements on the ranch and generate some savings.

But Sam Benton held the most influence as to who would get the cavalry deal. In the last few years, the only thing of Benton’s that had grown faster than his bank account was his dislike of Indians. And then there was Abigail Benton, the old man’s niece. Garret had been courting the girl for six months, and she shared the same views as her prestigious uncle.

Hellfire! Cade couldn’t have chosen a worse time to hang Garret over the coals. He could feel the men’s gaze glued to him. Waiting. Ready to judge Cade’s position. Half owner or just a tolerated little brother? If Garret ever hoped to have his brother as a full partner, he couldn’t afford to embarrass him in front of the wranglers. And the Indian did look hard as a whetstone and tough as jerky—two traits that would help Garret protect the herd. “How do you know he can break a horse?”

Cade smiled and pointed to the churned ground in the corral. “I think we can test just how good a cowboy he is.”

The stallion raced along the fence, his mane flying, his tail high, pausing to trample some imaginary foe.

Garret barked, “The stallion’s a killer. Can you handle him?”

“If we do, will you give us a job?” the smaller Indian questioned as he pushed his way forward. His gaze fixed on the lathered sides of the stallion. He tucked a few loose hairs under his black felt hat.

“Break the stallion, and he’ll give you the ranch.” Cade chuckled.

“Don’t need a ranch, just a job.” The boy’s cold stare met Garret’s. For a youngster, the lad showed merit. His gaze didn’t falter as it drilled into Garret.

The two Indians were drifters. Trail dust layered their clothes and bedrolls. They’d move on after a few months, and the army would be none the wiser.

Garret knew what it was like to be spit on and insulted. Being the son of a saloon gal wasn’t much different from being half-Indian. “If the stallion is broken, Cade’ll hire your brother.”

“What about me?”

“I’ll give you a job for as long as you want it,” Garret promised.

The big half-breed gave the younger one a long, silent look. Without a word passing between them, a decision was made. Both moved toward the corral.

“Two bits says he lasts longer than any of us did.” Cade gave Garret a devilish wink.

“I’ll take that bet.” Cracker joined several other cowhands clamoring for a piece of the deal. Fists rose again, money exchanged hands.

Wranglers leaned against the top rail of the corral, eager to see exactly what the powerful Indian was capable of. The cowhands looked like a poorly constructed Navajo blanket. Their shirts wove an uneven line of desert reds and browns while their jeans formed a uniform lower border.

Both Indians walked into the corral. Pine needles littered the ground, soaking up the moisture from last night’s summer rain.

The big Indian carried an old flour sack, the boy lugged a dally saddle. The stallion paced, whirled, then raced toward the youth. While the small Indian plowed through the mud toward the fence rail, still toting the saddle, the older one whipped out the sack and covered the black’s eyes. Blinded, the animal halted, his nostrils flaring.

“Kit?” The big Indian faced his smaller brother as he held on to the stallion’s halter.

“I’m fine.” Kit’s breath came out in short bursts. He slapped on the saddle and tightened the girth. The stallion pranced sideways.

Cracker, the ranch doomsayer, muttered, “Pshaw! They done got the black madder than a cornered polecat. Ain’t that right, Candus?”

The old Buffalo soldier’s black face creased into deep furrows of worry. “Ain’t no one a-ridin’ that animal now.”

While the stronger Indian held the stallion’s halter, the boy eased up to the animal’s side. He held out his hands and cupped the horse’s velvety nose. Laughter and taunts from the sidelines melted away as the cowboys watched.

Nostrils flared, the stallion possessed a lot of fight. The boy lowered his head and let out a long, slow, even breath. The stallion stilled. Then the half-breed youth inhaled as the animal exhaled, stealing the stallion’s breath.

Silence settled on the scene, the cowhands and Garret mystified by the action. Again, the two adversaries exchanged breaths, as though they were exchanging souls. The stallion’s fidgeting quieted to an alert twitch of his ears.

The tall Indian removed the flour sack. In one fluid motion, Kit pulled himself up onto the stallion’s back and his brother released his hold on the halter.

Surprise flickered across the stallion’s expressive face. Uncertainty tensed his muscles. Pawing the ground, the horse took a few steps forward.

Kit straightened in the saddle. Garret heard him utter a few Indian commands he couldn’t understand, but the black did. The horse moved away from the rail toward the center of the ring, shivering, but held in check by the steady hands of his rider.

Indian magic? Garret doubted it, but there was something about the thin boy and the powerful horse that bristled the hair along his neck, made him feel he was seeing something unique and special.

“He ain’t done nothin’ yet.” Traynor stood, his belly dipping over his belt buckle. The best bronc rider on the ranch, he had been thrown twice by the black. Traynor’s hurt pride snarled his face into a mask of hatred. “Listen here, Cade, that don’t count none on the bettin’ time. He ain’t a ridin’ ‘im.”

Cade gave the angry man a crooked smile. “Bet was the Indian would last longer on the black than any of us. Nothing was said about which Indian or about just sitting.”

“Well, let’s see some ridin’ then.” Traynor tossed his high-crowned hat into the ring. The stiff brim struck the stallion in the corner of the eye.

Outrage and raw power broke Kit’s mystical control of the stallion. Stopping short, changing direction and bucking, the black fought to throw his rider. Mud flew into the air. The smell of crushed pine burned Garret’s nose. The fear of a crushed boy quickened his pulse.

Riding like a veteran cowhand, the slim boy clung to the horse’s back. With each lunge of the horse, Kit leaned back, one arm flying into the air to keep himself balanced. Shouts of encouragement for the rider and disapproval for Traynor created a noisy din.

The stallion twisted and gyrated. Foam spilled from his mouth and lathered the bit. The acrid scent of sweat and horses heated the air. Each time the animal’s crushing hooves pummeled the ground, Garret expected to see the Indian boy fall and the stallion trample the life from him. Yet Kit outthought and outmaneuvered the horse. Perhaps they truly had exchanged souls along with their breath.

His most ingenious tactics a failure, the stallion gave a few halfhearted kicks. Sweat dripped from the girth. The horse sucked in deep breaths of air. Surrender loomed just ahead.

A calm settled over the corral. Cracker stopped in mid-chew, watching the boy and the horse. “If I live to be a hunerd, I’ll never see a ride like that again.”

One look at the older Indian, and the calm shattered. Anger blazed across the red man’s face and his stare centered on Traynor. With his brother back in control of the horse, he headed toward Traynor, his tight fists flagging a warning. The cowboy made a beeline for the barn.

The half-breed was loaded to the muzzle with rage, ready to kill. Garret jerked his thumb toward the barn. Cade slipped away from the fence and headed for Traynor. A fight, with fists or guns, could always draw Cade’s attention. Garret cut off the Indian and faced down the taller man. “Traynor’ll get what he deserves.”

Fists the size of cannonballs slowly unclenched. The Indian took a step back, a look of sarcastic disbelief on his face. “Then I will see your judgment. But if I do not agree, I will see the man pays a harsher price.”

With the Indian at his heels, Garret strode into the barn. Irritation, with the Indian and Traynor, made Garret’s lips twitch into their usual scowl.

“I came to collect my winnings.” Cade blocked Traynor into a stall.

“I ain’t a-paying you squat.” Traynor lowered his head and charged. Stepping aside at the last minute, Cade watched the muscle-bound cowboy run by and crash against the opposite stall gate.

Military discipline checked Garret’s urge to give the cowboy a mind-numbing blow. He jerked his chin toward the horizon. “Collect your wages and ride out.”

“You’re firin’ me and a-keepin’ them Injuns?” Traynor snorted, and puffed out his chest. Pointing toward the breed, he added, “That kind ain’t no good unless they’s dead.”

The breed’s fist shot out like a lightning bolt and landed square on the wrangler’s nose. Blood spurted over Traynor’s face. He fell back, wiped his face with his hand and shook off the blood. “Goddamn breed.” He reached for his gun.

Cade’s gun snaked out of the holster with the speed of a rattler’s strike. Traynor halted, his hand inches from the butt of his pistol. Despite the tense moment, Cade drawled out, “You don’t want to wind up dead as well as fired. You’ll have to spend all your wages on a casket.”

“Listen to him.” Garret tugged on Traynor’s belt and collar, bringing the stunned cowboy to his feet. A pulpy mass, bleeding and skewed to the left, marked where his nose used to be. “Cade, pay Traynor his wages from your winnings. Then see he gets his horse and rides out.”

“Dammit, Cap’n,” Traynor protested. “He didn’t win that money fair and square. You know he chea—”

Cade blocked his gun barrel with Traynor’s chin. “I’m thinking you oughta be buried at sunset. Right peaceful then.”

Traynor took the hint, shut his mouth and pulled his face away from the gun.

From behind Garret, the breed growled, “It will do for the injury to Kit.”

“It wasn’t for you or your kin,” Garret snapped as he laid the truth out bare for the Indian. “Traynor’s actions could have damaged a valuable piece of my property.”

The hooded look returned to the breed’s eyes. Turning to leave, he replied, “Indian lives are worth less than horses. This I have heard.”

Let the Bluebellies starve. They ain’t worth feeding. The prison guard’s taunt echoed in Garret’s head. He knew the value of human life and how it could be cheapened. Hell, the Indian took it all wrong. Mexican, Black, Indian, it didn’t matter. Even after surviving Andersonville prison, he had hired on Johnny Rebs.

That stallion could guarantee Garret a visit with Sam Benton. The word in town was the rich man appreciated good horseflesh, and that appreciation might manifest itself in the army contract.

“Senor, come quick.” Vega, the ranch foreman, waved both hands in the air. His handlebar mustache bounced as he added, “The rider fell…”

Aggravation threatened to break what was left of Garret’s iron-willed control. Running to the corral, followed by the breed, he pushed past the silent ring of cowboys. “Someone help him out of there…” His voice dried in his throat like grass in a summer drought. Kit’s slouchy hat blew across the chewed-up ground.

“Damn you to hell.” Garret shouted at the half-breed and slipped between the rails. The black, all fight out of him, rested at the opposite rail, far from the figure sprawled on the ground.

“Are you crazy?” Garret demanded. He reached out and jerked Kit up.

Kit stumbled to remain upright, then pushed his arm off with a strength that surprised him. “The black’s broken. I rode him longer than you. Now, keep your word.”

“No way in hell am I giving you or your brother a job.” Garret pushed Kit toward the corral gate.

Long ebony hair, released from the confines of the hat, whipped into the air. The scent of mountain columbines and pine surrounded him. An icy blast of anger stabbed him from the fallen rider’s stare. “You gave your word to hire me.”

“That was before I knew the truth.” His jaw clenched into a vise of outrage, Garret could hardly speak. Emotions corralled for years threatened to break free.

The gaudy posters advertising his mother’s saloon extravaganza flashed in his mind along with heartache. Why was fate sending him this blatant reminder of a time he wanted to forget? As a punishment for his youthful intolerance or as a reminder of his mother’s last wish? Make Blaine a name to be respected.

To hide his turmoil, he made his voice harsh and grating. “The Rockin’ G is no place for your kind.”

“My kind?” Kit’s eyes opened wide.

Garret felt himself drawn to the deep azure pools. He fought to swim free of their crystal-like depths and answered hoarsely, “Yeah, a woman.”