Janette Oke - A Bride for Donnigan

A deep sigh escaped her as she moved toward the crumbling concrete step. She dreaded to enter the room and deposit her few small coins on the kitchen table. The house, always dark with gloom since her father had died, represented so much work to be done. She wished that she could just—What? She didn’t really know. All she knew was that she wished she didn’t have to lift the latch and cross the threshold into the dank kitchen chamber, the gloom, and Madam. But enter she must.

She put her hand on the door latch and dragged her reluctant foot up to the last step.

With a flurry that was totally unexpected, the door jerked inward out of her grasp. There stood Bridget, hair tossed, cheeks flushed, hands clapping to her breast. “Kathleen!” she shrieked. “You’ll never guess what has just happened! Mama is marrying again!”

Donnigan

“Whoa.”

The man shifted slightly to draw back on the reins he held firmly in a large, calloused hand. The big black he was riding immediately responded to the command, though he tossed his head and champed on the bit. The man smiled and reached out his other hand to stroke the wind-swept mane. The horse’s neck was warm and damp with sweat beneath his touch. They had both enjoyed the run.

He swung one long leg over the horse’s back and stepped down from the saddle. As he moved away, the horse followed, still working on the bit and tossing his head.

“Don’t be so impatient,” the man said, but the tone was gentle and his voice was low and deep, touched softly with the drawl of the south.

His eyes swept the fields before him. It was his first crop—and the grain he had planted already stood tall on sturdy stocks. He couldn’t hide the sparkle in his eyes, but the big stallion who rubbed his nose impatiently on his master’s shirt sleeve did not seem to notice.

“Look at it, Black,” he said to the horse, for he had to speak to someone. “Best crop I’ve ever seen.”

The black just snorted.

He stood for several more minutes surveying his fields, then turned back to the horse. “Don’t know why you’re always in such a hurry,” he scolded. “We’ve got all day.”

But the black blew and lifted his head. As he felt the reins being gathered once again, he tossed his head at this signal that they were about to resume their journey.

The horse was big, but the man was in direct proportion. He was tall, being six foot two, his shoulders broad, his arms tight with muscles built by hard work on the land. Thick blond hair above a ruddy complexion and a pleasant expression completed the picture.

He swung up into the saddle easily and lifted the reins. The black jerked around eagerly and sprang to a gallop back across the ridge the moment he felt the touch of heel to his side.

When they reached the fork in the trail, the man turned the horse eastward instead of toward the building site, and the stallion did not hesitate. He knew every trail of the farm almost as well as his master, and this direction took them to the pastures where cattle and horses fed lazily on plentiful prairie grass.

They had to stop to open a gate. The horse stomped and snorted his impatience, but the man was slow and deliberate in each movement. “Easy, Black. Easy,” he drawled softly as the large animal tugged on the reins.

They entered the pastures together, and the man turned back to lift into position the wooden post that supported the gate wires, slipping the loop of wire over the top to fasten it securely. Then he remounted and they were off again.

By now the sides of the black were shiny with sweat, but the man still had to hold the horse in check.

The man’s closest neighbor, Wallis Tremont, had once observed, “I think thet horse’d run ’til he dropped.” His voice had conveyed his admiration as he looked at the animal.

Donnigan smiled now at the thought and had to admit that Wallis likely was right. The black sure did love to run.

Man and horse crossed a small creek, wound their way up a hill, and topped the crest to look out over a sweeping valley. There beneath them grazed fifty-odd head of prime stock. The sparkle returned to Donnigan’s eyes, and a slow smile turned up the corners of his mouth and crinkled the tanned skin around his eyes.

“Spring calves sure do look good,” he told the horse.

The black pawed the ground.

“I know, I know,” he said with a chuckle. “You want to see the horses.”

But he did not give the horse permission to move on. Not just yet. He loved to look out at the herd as it grazed peacefully in the valley. He had long dreamed of just such a scene before him. His. Yet even now he could scarcely believe that the dream had actually come true.

Oh, not all of it. He still had a ways to go. Still had fences to build and buildings to raise. And there were the payments to make. His crops were still in the fields. His herds were not the size he hoped to make them. But the crops looked good. The herds would take care of their own growth. He had good stock. That was what counted. And time would take care of the line of annual payments that stretched out before him. He felt good. Blessed. Happy. He was right where he wanted to be—and still young enough to enjoy many years of being there.

Donnigan’s body shifted as the big black beneath him pawed the ground again and snorted his annoyance at being kept in check.

“All right. All right,” said the man, for the first time just a hint of impatience in his voice.

He lifted the reins and urged the horse forward. “So where do you think they’ll be feeding?”

The black did not wait for a second invitation. With a toss of his head he headed south, taking the rise in long, powerful strides, the foam on his broad chest flecking the man who sat in the saddle.

“Easy. Easy,” Donnigan chided gently, his hand slightly tightening the reins.

They topped the rise, and there they were—three geldings, seven mares, and six foals. At the sound of the approaching hooves all heads lifted and excited whinnies welcomed the black. One mare left the herd and trotted toward them, her head held high, her nostrils distended. Other mares joined her, trotting a few paces, stopping, snorting, tossing heads and swishing tails. The geldings shifted about, seeming uneasy at the appearance of the black stallion. Only the younger foals seemed unaffected. They fed or gambolled or chased after dams just as though the big black was not quickly covering the distance between them.

Donnigan rode right up to the shifting herd. They swirled and bolted around him, and though his demeanor seemed just as relaxed, his eyes were ever alert for the playful kick that could mean a bad bruise or even a broken leg should it strike a rider.

“Look at that young colt,” he said to his black. “You ought to be plenty proud of him. He looks just like you.”

The colt was playfully nipping another foal and dancing and kicking in mock battle.

The black paid no more attention to the colt than to the rest of the milling herd.

Donnigan studied each of his horses carefully. For the most part he was more than pleased with what he saw, but his eyes did narrow when he saw Sergeant, one of his work geldings, appear to move forward with a very slight limp. He seemed to be favoring his right front leg. Donnigan watched the horse take a few more steps, his eyes squinted against the harsh afternoon sun, and then he lifted his rope from the saddle horn and moved the black into closer proximity.

With one quick flick of his wrist the rope snaked out and encircled the neck of the surprised roan. He did not fight the noose about his neck, but his head lifted and he snorted his complaint.

Donnigan moved the black to a hold position and swung down from the saddle.