Sherri Shackelford - The Cattleman Meets His Match

John glanced across the distance, shadows flickering across his face. “The girls okay?”

Moira nodded.

“Did anything happen back there?” He tipped back his hat, revealing his clear and sympathetic eyes. “Anything more?”

Moira knew what he was asking, and she answered as best she could. “I don’t think so. We were all taken this evening and locked in together.”

A sigh of relief lowered his shoulders. “Thank God.”

He visibly relaxed, and she realized he’d been carrying the tension since he’d counted the windows. He hadn’t known she was watching, but she’d observed his studied concentration, seen his face change when he’d recognized the brothel.

“Amen to that,” she replied quietly.

The question had cost him, that much was clear, and Moira admired his courage. It was easier ignoring the evil in life, easier looking away than facing wicked truths. Most folks would rather skirt a puddle than fix the drain.

She replayed the events of the night in her head. What did she know about John Elder—other than he smelled like an autumn breeze and looked like he should be advertising frock coats on a sketched fashion plate. Not that looks and scent counted for much. She knew he was driving his cattle north because he was trying to prove himself. He didn’t appear the sort of man who’d let someone else hold him back.

Unable to curtail her curiosity, she braced her hands against her bent knees. “Where is the rest of your crew?”

“They went bad on me. Or maybe I went bad on them. It’s hard telling sometimes.”

“Surely you can’t drive the cattle alone?” Moira frowned. She didn’t know much about cattle drives, but she didn’t figure he could accomplish the task single-handedly. “What will you do now?”

“Go back into town. Start over.” He shook his head in disgust. “I’ll figure it out. I always do.” John cracked a slender branch over his bent knee. “I guess I’ll find a short crew. It’s seventy-five miles to Fort Preble, and double that to Cimarron Springs. That’s ten days with good weather. Only ten more days.” He grunted.

“Where’d you start from?”

“Paris.”

Moira bit off a laugh. “Paris? What’s wrong with American cows?”

“Paris, Texas.” A half grin slid across his face. “My family owns a cattle ranch there.”

Her cheeks heated. She was obviously too exhausted for witty banter. “Are you driving the cattle to Cimarron Springs to sell?”

“Nope.” The cowboy paused for a long moment and Moira let the silence hang between them. Finally he replied, “Starting over,” he spoke so quietly she almost didn’t hear him. “It’s a small herd, but it’ll grow. Times are changing. The big cattle drives are drying up. In ten years’ time, you will hardly see a one.”

Moira knew a lot about starting over. A man with roots and family shouldn’t feel the need. “What about your kin?”

He stared at her as though she’d grown a second head. “It’s a long story.”

Moira nodded her understanding. “They treated you unkindly.”

“Not, uh, not really. Not mean exactly.”

“It must be really dreadful. I didn’t mean to pry.”

“It wasn’t really bad, we just, uh, we just didn’t get along, that’s all. There’s no deep dark secret.” The cowboy plucked another handful of kindling from a pile at his elbow and tossed sticks onto the crackling flames. “What about you? Where’s your family?”

Thrown off guard by the abrupt turn of the tables, Moira considered her answer carefully. She didn’t share details about her past with strangers. She didn’t want pity or judgment.

Yet something in the night air and the cowboy’s affable, forthright eyes compelled her confidence. “I’m searching for my brother. We were separated as teenagers. Last month I received a telegram. Well, part of one. It’s a long story. Anyway, I gathered what information I could and came straight out, hoping he hadn’t gone far. Except I got here too late. He’s already gone.” She recalled the cowboy’s previous comment. “What did you mean earlier? If we were boys, you’d take us on as your crew?”

A chuckle drifted across the campfire. “It was a story my father used to tell. Back in forty-nine you couldn’t find any able-bodied men for work. They’d all been lured away by the gold rush. A local rancher, desperate for hands, hired him and ten other boys. They drove twelve-hundred head of cattle almost four hundred miles. None of them but the rancher and the cook was over the age of fifteen.”

“That’s amazing!”

“Yeah, but I’m not sure how much I believe.” John scoffed. “The story got bigger each time he told it.”

Moira braced her hands behind her and leaned back. For the first time in years, she’d lost her direction. She’d run up against dead ends before. For some inexplicable reason, this time felt different, more final...more devastating.

“Too bad about your brother,” John said. “I have six of ’em and I’m the youngest. Never lost a one though. They were always around. Too much so.”

Moira’s eyes widened. “What a blessing, having all that family.”

The cowboy kept his eyes heavenward. “I don’t know if I’d put it that way.”

She followed his gaze, astonished by the sheer number of stars blanketing the night sky. She couldn’t recall the last time she’d stared at the moon. If she was out after dark, she kept her defenses up, watching for strangers and pickpockets, not staring at the twinkling stars. “What about your parents?”

“Both dead. My pa died first and I guess my ma couldn’t imagine living without him. She died a short while later.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Moira murmured. “I guess you’re an orphan, too.”

“I never thought about it that way.” A wrinkle deepened on his forehead. “Except I’m the youngest, and I sometimes feel like I have six fathers. My reasons for leaving seem small now, after talking with you, but I had to set out on my own. When our folks were alive, they had a way of making sure we all had a voice. Now it’s as if we’re all fighting to be heard, only no one is listening. It got to the point where we’d argue over something just for the sake of a good brawl. I figured if I didn’t leave soon, all that fighting would turn into hate. And hate is a hard thing to come back from. I know my folks wouldn’t have wanted that for us.”

Moira plucked a handful of prairie grass and held it in her fisted hand. “I wouldn’t know.”

Her own father had run off the year Tommy had been born. Her mother had once been young and beautiful, but time and illness had stolen the bloom from her cheeks. The more she needed and the less she gave, the less her husband came home at night. Once she’d lost her usefulness, he’d run. He’d run from his wife and his children. His responsibilities. He hadn’t run far enough. He’d been killed in a factory accident three months later.

Moira had been in charge of herself for as long as she could remember. Her mother had worked herself sick, and Moira had cared for her little brother. When her mother could no longer even care for herself, a woman from the Missouri State Charitable Trust and Foundling Society had arrived.

Never outlive your usefulness, her mother had said.

Moira had felt her mother’s death somewhere along the way, although she’d never received proper notice. One day she’d finally accepted that no one was coming for her. The realization had hardened her heart and made her more determined than ever to prove her worth.

Shortly after the Charitable Trust had found them, she and Tommy had been taken in by the Giffords. Mrs. Gifford had fancied herself a society lady, except Mr. Gifford had never made enough money to keep her in the style she figured she deserved. Moira had initially been humbled, awed by their fine house and brocaded furniture. She’d soon learned it was all superficial luxury.