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spoke, "If anything happened to you out there, Cat-" He left the rest of it
unsaid.
"I understand." And it showed in the soft curve of her lips and the sudden
warmth in her eyes. "But I could as easily fall down the stairs as off a
horse."
There was no more discussion. She was going.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The bawl of calves and the bellow of cows filled the wide hollow in the plains
where encircling riders kept the herd bunched. The cattle were a cross of
Hereford and Angus with enough longhorn thrown in to create a colorful
patchwork of rust, black, roan, and brindle. At the far end of the hollow,
ground crews waited by branding fires while other riders, working in pairs,
walked their horses into the herd and separated the unbranded calves, their
ropes snaking out swift and sure to ensnare hind legs and drag them gently to
the fire.
Roundups on the ranch had been conducted in this manner for more than a
hundred years. The cowboys of the Triple C wouldn't have it any other way,
showing the same disdain for holding pens and squeeze chutes that they did for
rattlesnakes and politicians, insisting that the old way was faster and less
stressful on man and beast. It was the same reason they gave for sleeping on
the hard ground under a big, open sky-unless it rained. Then they grumbled,
hunched their shoulders, and cursed the mud that sucked at the feet of
anything that walked.
But the only clouds visible this morning were puffy white ones-the innocent
kind that intensified the turquoise blue of the sky. Chase automatically
scanned them and, just as automatically, brought his gaze back to the
slight-built rider on the herd's edge, one of the group that kept the cattle
bunched for the roping teams. Cat seemed to be fine. She sat relaxed and easy
in the saddle, yet fully balanced, ready to turn back any animal that tried to
break from the herd. Her black duster was tied behind the saddle, not needed
on this warm spring morning. The flannel shirt she wore, of green and black
plaid, hung loose, drawing no attention to the small, round belly it covered.
Reassured once more, Chase shifted his weight in the saddle, seeking a more
comfortable position, the leather creaking a little, his teeth clenched
against the sharp and almost constant arthritic pain in his back and hips,
resulting from the injuries he suffered in the plane crash that had taken
Maggie's life. He knew he was lucky even to be able to sit a horse. But two
hours in the saddle and he was more stove up than a man half again his age.
Judging by the grinding ache, he had almost reached that limit.
He gathered up the chestnut's reins, thinking to ride back to the motorized
cookshack, have some coffee, and stretch the kinks out of his back and legs.
The drowsing chestnut, a veteran of countless roundups, heaved a weary sigh of
resignation and lifted its head, then paused and swiveled its ears in the
direction of an approaching rider. Chase saw him as well and let his hands
settle back on the saddle horn when he recognized his son. Ty cantered his
horse the last few yards up the sloping side of the grassy bowl and reinedd in
alongside Chase.
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"How's Cat?" Ty pushed his hat back and rested a forearm on his saddle horn
while his gaze skimmed the other riders, circling the herd until finally
locating his sister.
"She seems to be fine."
Ty watched her a moment. "The boys aren't too happy about her being here."
"Neither am I," Chase replied, then added somewhat grudgingly, "At the same
time, I have to admire her for what she's doing."
Ty nodded with equal reluctance. "She set out to pull her own weight and prove
how tough she is, and she's certainly doing that. Although why she is, I don't
know."
"Because toughness is a quality men respect out here, and Cat knows that."
"Not in women."
"In women, too," Chase stated, with a decisive nod. "We just don't want them
to be less of a woman because of it. That makes for a fine line to walk."
"A very fine line," Ty agreed dryly.
Chase smiled at that. "We have always expected more from women-set higher
standards for them than we ourselves are willing to meet. It isn't fair, but
it's a fact."
"I guess you're right." A freshly branded calf, sporting a shiny new ear tag,
ran toward the herd, bawling for its mother. Idly Ty observed the reunion.
"Arch tells me we've got about twenty head of Shamrock cattle in our gather."
"Sounds like O'Rourke is up to his old tricks of wintering his cows on Calder
grass," Chase remarked in a voice arid with disapproval.
"Probably couldn't afford the hay to feed them," Ty guessed. "I swear I don't
know how he makes a living off that ranch."
"He doesn't need much, just enough to pay property taxes and put food on his
table. He certainly doesn't spend anything on keeping the place up." Which was
another strike against him, in Chase's book.
"That's true enough." Straightening in the saddle, Ty cast a searching glance
toward the cookshack. "I'm surprisedd he hasn't shown up here yet, as close an
eye as he keeps on Cat."
"More than likely he'll ride in around noon-in time to eat."
Ty nodded at that. "I told Arch to cut the Shamrock stock out and throw them
back across his fence as soon as this bunch gets branded." Automatically, his
gaze swung northward in the direction of his uncle's ranch, then lingered on
the pair of riders trotting toward them. "We have company." [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]