Читать книгу Into The Storm - Helen DePrima - Страница 14
ОглавлениеSHELBY SETTLED BEHIND the wheel. Stranger gave a contented sigh and stretched out on the backseat to chew his red rubber KONG.
She sneaked a glance at Jake and then looked quickly back at the road. No wedding ring, but she could see a tanned-over mark where one had been. His hair had fooled her about his age. Once she had sponged the blood off his face, she pegged him as early forties, possibly good-looking once the bruising and swelling subsided. She’d come to think of his build as cowboy-cut, narrow-hipped and heavily muscled through the chest and shoulders from wrestling calves and bucking sixty-pound bales.
Not that she cared. She had left a man behind in Texas, a nice guy who had mistaken their shared love of horses for a prelude to wedding bells. The ugly scene she’d staged still made her cringe, but she’d made sure he wouldn’t come chasing after her with a ring in his pocket.
Shelby put Texas behind her. Not a cloud marred the morning sky, and last night’s snow lay on the red-gold buttes and bluffs like sugar icing on a layer cake. Silver peaks appeared teasingly to the north, only to disappear as the road dipped to cross a shallow wash or follow a winding valley. Her heart quickened with anticipation. She had crisscrossed the prairie states for more than a decade, with a couple of jobs in California, but somehow her wanderings had never brought her to the spine of the Rockies.
“So there stood Great-Great Grandpa Jacob, eyeball to eyeball with the grizzly and no weapon but his Navy Colt the Yankees let him keep. He got the bear, right through the mouth, but the bear got him, too—fell spang on him and half scalped him on the way down.”
Shelby realized Jake had been talking a blue streak—she’d seen that with concussions, sometimes drowsiness, sometimes running off at the mouth.
“I guess he survived,” she said.
“Only because some Ute girls picking berries found him the next day. My great-great grandma probably never saw a white man before, never mind a redheaded one—”
“You’re part Indian?” She glanced again at his face. Mighty light-skinned, but something about the tilt of his eyes and the shape of his mouth...
“I know I don’t look it,” he said. “I take after old Jacob, redheaded like him before my hair turned. Our ranch backs up to Ute land, so I grew up hunting and fishing and scrapping with my cousins on the rez. My boys have dark hair and brown eyes, but my daughter got the red hair. It looks a lot better on her than it did on me.”
“The lady at the diner said your sons are bull riders?”
“Tom rides bulls, and Luke’s a bullfighter with the Professional Bull Riders tour. I don’t know who takes more risk—Tom riding once, maybe twice a night, or Luke every time the gate opens. I can’t say much—I rode rough stock myself till my wife put her foot down. Of course, the prize money’s better nowadays.” He gave a wry laugh. “In between getting busted up.”
“So now your wife frets about them.”
He looked away. “Annie died coming on two years ago—complications of lupus.”
Before she could respond, they crested the next rise and she caught her breath. The peaks, pure with new snow, reared like a breaking wave frozen against the impossibly blue sky.
“Pretty, huh?” he said. “Always grabs me when I come home this way. Durango’s just ahead. You need anything before we go on to Norquist’s?”
“Not for me, but I’ll need a sack of food for Stranger—I couldn’t carry but enough for a couple days.”
Entering a new town always excited her, like holding a lottery ticket. Maybe this would be the place where she could finally stop running. She never actually counted on winning the jackpot, but she still let herself dream about having a real address and shopping in stores where people would come to know her name.
They passed chain hotels and box stores on the strip before turning onto Main Avenue lined with Victorian storefronts. The shrill hoot of a train whistle startled her. Just off the main street, a steam locomotive chuffed beside a gingerbread station.
“Durango and Silverton Railroad,” Jake said. “That engine shows up in a lot of Western movies. It hauled silver ore down from the mines back in the 1880s and now tourists.”
He pointed out a red brick storefront sandwiched between a shop displaying leather vests and hats in the window and Burke’s Sundries with T-shirts and postcards in racks on the sidewalk. Ornate gold letters spelled out Silver Queen Saloon and Dance Emporium across the plate-glass window.
“My daughter works there weekends and after school some days. She’s stashing her paychecks for college. At least I hope that’s how she’ll use the money.”
“Isn’t she underage to work at a saloon? Sorry, none of my business.”
“The Queen stopped serving liquor during Prohibition, but folks around here would shoot anybody who tried to change the name. Margie serves the best food in town—in La Plata County, for that matter. Chicken-fried steak and liver with bacon and onions...” He rolled his eyes and smacked his lips.
“No sushi or veggie wraps, I’m guessing.”
Jake laughed. “Not hardly.” He checked his watch. “Too bad she isn’t serving lunch yet, but we could stop for a cup of coffee and a piece of pie. Margie makes a dried peach pie that’s been written up in the Denver Post—some food show even featured it.”
“I’d better get out to the Norquist ranch.” Spending the whole morning—and the night before—with Jake Cameron had become claustrophobic, too comfortable for her peace of mind.
“Maybe another time,” he said, and directed her to the Farm and Ranch Exchange on the outskirts of town. A rustic log structure anchored an ell, sided with pale shingles, and a steel shed with loading bays.
“Might as well pick up a few things myself,” he said, “as long as I’m here.” He climbed down from the truck.
She entered the store with Stranger at her side, breathing in the comforting smells of leather and molasses feed, saddle soap and new sisal. Hunting and fishing supplies filled the front room, with mounted heads of deer and elk and pronghorns staring sightlessly from the smoke-darkened walls. Garden supplies, hardware and pet products could be found in the next room, according to the sign over a wide archway. She found the proper dog food and followed Jake to the checkout.
A heavy-shouldered man, dark-skinned with a single long braid, stood behind a long counter. “Hey, cousin. Nice win for Tom, but you look like you did about three seconds on Bodacious.”
“Skidded off the road on my way home,” Jake said. “No real harm done.”
“June’s been asking about you.”
“I’m keeping pretty busy with the boys gone so much.” He looked away. “Calving season, you know. Tell her hey for me.”
He nodded toward Shelby. “Meet Shelby Doucette—she’s going to start those mustangs for Ross Norquist. I’m giving her a ride up to his place.”
“Oscar Buck,” the man said, reaching across the counter to shake her hand. “What tribe, sister?”
“Choctaw a long way back,” she said, “crossed with Cajun and a dash of runaway slave.”
“Don’t mind Oscar,” Jake said. “He’s nosy as a pup but not near as smart.”
Oscar grinned as if he’d heard the gibe before.
“Ross will sure be glad to see you,” Oscar said. “He’s caught between Liz wanting to treat those horses like pet ponies and his boy itching to play rodeo with them. Either way, somebody’s bound to get hurt.”
He peered over the counter. “Handsome dog you got there.”
“Stranger, sit,” Shelby said. “Paws.” Stranger sat and placed both front paws on the countertop beside the forty-pound bag of Science Diet Large Breed.
Oscar laughed and extended his hand for the dog to sniff. “Howdy, Stranger. Any friend of Cousin Jake’s is welcome.”
He turned back to Jake. “I stopped for coffee at the Queen yesterday,” he said. “Lucy sure is jacked up about some play she’s in.”
Jake rubbed his forehead. “Mike Farley and the high school drama teacher are all that’s keeping her in school—she’s still set on trying her luck in Hollywood or New York. I hate to think what’ll happen when Mike leaves for Boulder in the fall.” He scribbled a list on the back of an envelope fished from his pocket. “You want to get this up for me? Put the dog food on my account, too.”
“No, thanks!” Shelby dug a roll of bills from her jeans and laid down three twenties. “We pay our own way.”
Jake shrugged. Oscar took the bills and gave her change before tucking the bag under one arm. “Meet you around back.”
“I’ll take it from here,” Jake said, climbing into the driver’s seat. “I don’t want Oscar spreading the tale I wasn’t fit to drive. He’s got a big heart and a bigger mouth.”
Shelby handed him the keys. “You sure you’re okay?”
“Shoot, I felt fine soon as I got some caffeine into my system. I’ve driven that road more times than I care to count, taking my wife down to the University Medical Center. I kind of enjoyed the chance to sit back and look around.”
Oscar heaved a final bag of cattle cake into the back of the truck beside several bales of straw. “I can’t give you a full keg of fence staples till the truck comes in tomorrow,” he said.
“No problem,” Jake replied. “I’ll send one of the boys to pick it up.”
Jake drove north on Route 550 a dozen miles before turning onto a narrow gravel road, climbing between sandstone walls until the canyon opened into a sheltered valley. Snow still lay along the lane, but new buds shone golden on the willows overhanging a brawling creek. Jake drove past a neat frame house to the cluster of barns and sheds beyond. He tapped his horn, and two men emerged from a long pole barn. The older man, his weathered face furrowed with puzzlement, strode to the truck as Jake ran down his window.
“Howdy, Jake. What brings you—”
“Saved you a trip, Ross. Here’s your horse tamer.”
Norquist bent and peered past Jake. “Shelby Doucette? Dang, girl—you’re mighty welcome here. This yahoo—” he jerked his head at the younger man behind him “—he’s hot to break those horses the old-fashioned way.”
“Reckon we’ll try your way first.” A younger man, tight-muscled under a Blue Seal T-shirt, sauntered forward with his thumbs hooked in his belt. “Since Ma’s set on it. I’m Gary Norquist—just holler when you need help.”
Shelby sighed inwardly—one of those. He would give her no respect as a woman or as a trainer. Jerks like the truck driver were less trouble. She could blow them off with Stranger’s help, but she needed to work around Gary Norquist.
She wished for the hundredth time she looked her age or, even better, as old as she felt. She played down her looks the best she could. Once, she had cut her hair boy-short, but it had grown out in a halo of soft dark curls, making her look maybe fifteen. Skinning it back in a braid at least looked businesslike. She stuck with relaxed jeans and shapeless shirts, rarely wore shorts and didn’t own a dress. Sometimes in her dreams she felt a skirt flutter around her knees and woke with her heart pounding, weeping tears she never shed in her waking hours.
“Thanks, but I work strictly with the horses’ owner. Stranger, to me,” she said without turning her head. She heard a scramble of claws, and the dog sat at her side, ears pricked.
The smirk faded from Gary Norquist’s face.
“You must be Shelby.” A lanky woman with gray-shot auburn hair haphazardly gathered into a bun had come up behind them. “I’m Liz Norquist,” she said, wringing Shelby’s hand. “The boys keep saying horse-breaking is men’s work, but I reckon we’ll show them different. Come, see the horses.” She strode toward a fenced enclosure, her denim skirt flapping around her legs.
Her husband and son fell in behind her, Gary rolling his eyes and muttering. “Come along, Jake,” Ross said. “See what we’ve let ourselves in for.”
“We did like you told us,” Liz said. “Water and good hay, otherwise we’ve let them be.”
Three horses stood at the far end of a long corral. Two mares huddled together while a young stallion possibly two years old stamped and snorted at a little distance. Shelby studied the horses. One of the mares, a red roan, looked close to foaling but in decent shape for wintering on the open range. The younger bay mare clung close to the older horse’s side. The colt stood between the other horses and the humans by the fence.
Ross pointed at the colt in disgust. “I agreed to a couple of mares, and they show up with that! Guess he pushed into the trailer with the others and they couldn’t get him out. Last thing I need around here is a stud making trouble, but he might make a decent cow pony once he’s cut.”
Shelby almost protested at the thought of gelding the colt. He looked like a throwback to Barb ancestors, rose-gray with his reddish baby coat already shading toward silver. His shaggy forelock couldn’t disguise the dished face and delicate ears of a classic Arabian. She sighed. Most owners wouldn’t chance a mare with a stud of undocumented lineage and no guarantee he’d breed true.
Liz jostled her elbow. “When do we start?”
Shelby checked the corral; ample hay lay scattered near the fence, and a stock tank brimmed with water. “Tomorrow morning,” she said. “No more hay today—I want them a little hungry.”
She turned to Norquist. “Can you put up a round pen? I won’t need it tomorrow, but soon.”
“We figured you’d want one—got the sections ready.”
“Guess you’re all set,” Jake said. “I’ll get along home.” He dug into his wallet and handed her a battered business card: Cameron’s Pride—Red Angus—Hesperus CO. “Call me if you need a ride to get your car. I still owe you.”
She took the card. She had been at ease with Jake Cameron, almost a sense of homecoming and a quiver of something long forgotten or ruthlessly beaten down. Loneliness swept her as she watched him walk away. She shook it off and stuck his card in her pocket before turning back toward the corral.
