Janette Oke - A Bride for Donnigan

“Whoa, boy. Whoa, Sarg,” he soothed as he moved along the rope to the gelding.

Gently his hands began to rub the nose, caress the neck, and then slide down toward the right front foot. The horse responded by lifting the foot when the hand reached the hoof. Donnigan was relieved at what he found. No serious problem, simply a small stone lodged against the frog.

Holding the hoof with one hand against his bent knee, he reached into his pants pocket and withdrew his knife. After opening the blade with his teeth, he began to gently nudge the stone from its wedged position, all the while talking soothingly to the horse.

When the stone was gone, Donnigan ran a practiced finger over the entire area. There seemed to be no damage—no swelling. The horse should be fine.

Patting the gelding again, he released the leg and slipped the noose from the roan’s neck. The horse did not step back but reached instead to rub his nose against the tall man’s shoulder.

“Go on with you. Get outta here,” said Donnigan affectionately with another slap on the animal’s neck. “You won’t be needed in the hay field for a few days yet.”

The roan flung his head and moved slowly away, and Donnigan made his way back to the black, coiling his rope as he moved.

He replaced the rope on the saddle horn and reached for the reins. His eyes passed over the herd that had gradually stopped its shifting and returned to grazing.

“See that, Black. They’re ignoring you already,” Donnigan chuckled and rubbed the horse’s nose. Then his eyes lifted to the sky. It was a clear, sunny day. A perfect day for—something. But Donnigan wasn’t sure just what he would do with it.

It would be another week before the hay was ready. The crops were well on the way but far from harvest. The fences were mended, the barn cleaned and strawed. With plenty of water and feed, the cattle needed no care in the summer months. The horses had just been checked. The roan was now moving about with little trace of his former limp.

“Guess we aren’t needed here,” he said to the stallion. “Might as well head on home.”

He gathered up the reins and stepped up into the saddle again. The black shifted and snorted. Donnigan knew that the horse would prefer staying with the herd. But it was almost two miles back to the house, and Donnigan had never enjoyed walking for no good reason. And he certainly had no intention of walking that afternoon in the hot sun with a saddle on his shoulder.

“Come on,” he urged the black as he laid the rein against his neck to swing him around. “You’ll be with the herd soon enough.”

Then he added softly as though to himself, “At least you got a herd to go to. Me? I have to content myself with having conversations with critters.”

And suddenly the joy seemed gone from the day. It was wonderful to have a dream fulfilled—but he sure was lonely.

By the time Donnigan had reached the farm buildings, the cloud of discontent had settled firmly about him. Not one to be given to brooding, he tried hard to shake the feeling. Surely, he reasoned, when he reached home and looked at the snug frame cabin that was his, the sturdy log buildings that were his barn and outbuildings, the strong, upright fences and corrals that he had spent days laboring over, the mood would leave him.

But even as he reined Black in before the corral gate and prepared to dismount, he realized he still felt discomfited.

He wanted to shake himself. To rid himself of his morose thoughts. To chide himself for feeling “down” when he had just surveyed so much that should make him feel “up.”

“What’s gone wrong?” he said aloud and realized that he was not talking to the black but to himself.

He had no answer. He just felt—yes, lonely. But surely a man who lived alone had a right to his lonely times. It seemed natural enough.

But as Donnigan moved to give the stallion his rubdown and return him to the corral, to the trough filled with clear spring water and to the manger filled with sweet hay, his thoughts were not easy to shake.

He was even more troubled when the black moved away from the water and hay and straight to the corral fence that was the closest he could get to the distant herd. He pushed his large body against the rails and lifted his head in a long, plaintive whinny.

The lonely call of the stallion seemed to shake Donnigan to his very soul. For a moment he regretted that he hadn’t left the horse in the pasture with the herd and walked home through the heat. It seemed cruel to separate him from his kind.

In the next moment Donnigan lifted the saddle from the rail where he had placed it, then whistled to the horse. The black swung around, tossing his head and trotting obediently toward Donnigan.

“Don’t get too excited,” Donnigan warned him gently. “We’re not going back to the herd. But I gotta talk with someone before I go stir crazy. We’re gonna go see Wallis.”

As expected, the stallion had wanted to take the trail back toward the pasture, but with a gentle nudge on the rein, Donnigan urged him toward the rough tract that was the country road. Black didn’t argue, being too well trained to fight the command. Soon they were loping easily in the direction of the neighbor bachelor’s place.

Donnigan wondered if they would find Wallis at home, but as they swung down the lane, Donnigan saw the man come to his door and peer out into the bright sun. Then the door swung fully open and Wallis squinted out at them.

“Tie yer horse and come in,” he invited. “I was just gettin’ myself some grub.”

It seemed too late for dinner and too early for supper in Donnigan’s thinking, but he only smiled. Wallis was not known to keep another man’s time schedule.

He tied Black and followed the man into his shack, beating the road dust from his chaps with his Stetson as he walked.

The one room of the small cabin was in its usual disarray.

“Pull up a chair,” invited Wallis.

Donnigan picked up a broken bridle and tossed it on the floor in the corner as he took the chair Wallis indicated.

“I’ve had my dinner,” Donnigan informed him as he moved toward the stove. “Just a cup of coffee.”

Wallis lifted a coffee cup from the bit of cupboard and swished a dirty piece of dish towel around its interior. Then he reached for the heavy enamel pot and poured a cup of the black, steamy liquid. Without comment Donnigan accepted the cup and took a sip. It was strong as tar and as hot as shoeing tongs. He put it down on the table and licked his lips to cool them.

“So what brings you out?” said Wallis around a bite of bread and gravy. “You’re usually too busy fer neighboring in broad daylight.”

Donnigan smiled. “In between chores,” he said without rancor. “Hay’s not quite ready yet. Thought I might just get a little visit in.”

Donnigan dared another guarded sip of coffee, looking at Wallis over the cup’s rim. His eyes had taken on a certain knowing glint.

“Went to town the other day,” Wallis said slowly, as though wanting to check his tongue but unable to keep his news to himself. “Got myself a paper.”

Donnigan didn’t see anything too extraordinary about that.

“Had me a talk with Lucas, too.”

Donnigan knew Lucas well. He was the man who ran the local livery, stagecoach, and hotel. He had done right well for himself, folks said. In fact, he might be one who would become rich in the new West.

Donnigan sipped the coffee and nodded, waiting for Wallis to go on with his story about Lucas—or the paper—whatever it was that was making Wallis’s eyes take on the shine.

But Wallis jumped right into the matter, his expression bright.