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Benteen didn’t attempt to question Shorty about his reference to a white man being a party to the rustling until the fever and delirium passed. But Shorty couldn’t shed much light on it.
“Everything was just blackin’ out on me when I caught a glimpse of him—or thought I did.” Shorty was agitated by his own vagueness. “I can’t swear one of the riders was white, Benteen. The more I think about it, the more I think my eyes was playin’ tricks on me.”
“It happens,” Benteen agreed.
“I’m sorry. It just never occurred to me they’d be watchin’ their backtrail. I’d a-been more careful about followin’ ’em.”
“Remember that, if there’s a next time. And don’t try to take them on alone. That’s an order,” Benteen added for good measure; then his mouth crooked in a playful angle. “Get some rest. I want you out of my bed and back in the bunkhouse where you belong.”
Before Shorty was moved to the bunkhouse, Lorna attacked it. She started by moving everything out, then washing down the walls, floors, and bed frames with the strongest solution of hot lye water she could make. Over the cowboys’ objections, she boiled their clothes and bedding and laid them out in the September sun to dry.
When she was finished, the bunkhouse came close to sparkling. Every bone and muscle in her body ached, and her hands felt raw from the burning lye soap, but she looked on the results with satisfaction.
Her pleasure wasn’t shared by Vince when he stepped into the bunkhouse and wrinkled his nose at the sharply clean smell. “It just don’t seem like home anymore.” He mumbled the complaint and shuffled past Lorna to his bunk.
When she mentioned the remark to Benteen, his reply was equally disapproving of her actions. “You didn’t expect to be thanked for interfering, did you?”
Lorna realized she was fighting alone in a man’s world.
When Jessie Trumbo returned from the Canadian drive, he reported being harassed by Indians during the trip. He figured they had run off twenty head of steers and ten horses, but no one was injured. After the incident with Shorty, Benteen gave orders for the men to work in pairs and carry their rifles with them. The same day Jessie returned, Zeke Taylor accidentally shot himself in the toe, and complained bitterly about ruining a good pair of boots.
The black buggy didn’t stop by the cabin. Lorna watched from the window as it went directly to the house on the knoll. Her lips thinned into a straight line. Turning, she g
rabbed up the black shawl and swung it around her shoulders.
Webb was running to the cabin to tell her of Mr. Giles’s arrival when she walked out the door. He was thrilled when he discovered they were going to the house to see him. Lorna was walking too fast for little Arthur to keep up, so she straddled him on her hip and carried him, while Webb cantered ahead on a makebelieve horse.
Bull Giles showed his surprise at her approach. Usually he came to the cabin to see the boys; Lorna didn’t bring them to see him. Arthur wiggled to be put down. She let him slide off her hip to the ground and scamper to his big friend.
She didn’t stop to speak to Bull, and ignored his questioning look that followed her when she swept by the buggy to climb the steps to the front door. The husky sound of Benteen’s laughter greeted her, its warmth sending a shiver down her spine as she paused in the entryway. Her feet were drawn to the study, where the sound had originated. The door stood ajar, permitting Lorna to see inside.
Benteen was standing fairly close to Lady Crawford, so stunning in black with her dark eyes and silvered blond hair. It was a second before Lorna noticed Benteen was filling a glass Lady Crawford was holding. Liquid foamed from the bottle in his hand to fill a second long-stemmed glass.
She could hear the murmur of their voices but couldn’t make out what they were saying. They were both smiling. Pain began to spread through Lorna. As Benteen partially turned to set the bottle on a wooden crate in the room, Lady Crawford cupped a hand to his cheek to turn his face back toward her. The action was so natural and familiar that a protest screamed inside Lorna. For a split second she glimpsed a taut yearning in Benteen’s features. Jealousy seared through her.
Her hand shoved the door the rest of the way open as she stepped forward with an angry tilt to her head. “Is this a private celebration, or can anyone attend?” she challenged.
Benteen made no attempt to hide his grim displeasure at her intrusion, but Lady Crawford turned and smiled at her with brazen ease. “Do come join us, Lorna,” she invited. “We were about to drink a toast to our first success.”
“A toast?” Her feet hardly seemed to touch the floor as Lorna swept into the room to cross to Benteen’s side. “Is that champagne? How wonderful,” she declared with icy brightness. “I’ve never tasted it before. Do you mind?” She took the glass from Benteen’s hand without waiting for his permission. She sipped at it and pretended to like the dryly sour effervescence. “It’s quite good, isn’t it?”
“Actually it is a poor year, but it was the best they had,” Lady Crawford replied.
“I’m not experienced about such things,” Lorna admitted freely, and passed the glass back to Benteen. “Forgive me for not allowing you and Lady Crawford to toast the first delivery of cattle on your beef contract.” She wanted to let him know that she was aware of the nature of his joint venture with Lady Crawford, even if he hadn’t told her the details. His fingers were curled tightly around the glass, his knuckles showing white. “Are you going to dash the glass into the fireplace after the toast?” Lorna inquired. “That’s how it’s usually done, isn’t it?”
“Very rarely,” Lady Crawford replied, and sent Benteen a private look over the rim of her glass when she held it to her reddened lips.
“Was there something you wanted, Lorna?” Benteen asked.
“Merely to say hello to Lady Crawford.” She fixed a bright smile on the older woman. “I wouldn’t want you to think I was being rude.”
“My dear, I would never think that,” Lady Crawford assured her.
“Would you mind leaving us now, Lorna?” It was an order, not a request. “We have some business to discuss.”
A tremor of mutiny quivered through her, but it ended on a note of sarcastic surrender. “I wouldn’t think of intruding on a business discussion.”
With a proud nod of her head to the English widow, Lorna exited the room. She didn’t slow down until she was outside the house and descending the steps. Her eyes were stinging with dry tears. She blinked to ease their rawness and missed the last step, stumbling to her knees.
