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With a flick of his wrist, Judd Boston snapped the buggy whip close to the ears of the chestnut mare. Benteen stepped back as the harnessed mare lunged forward and the wooden wheels of the buggy began their first revolution. The two remaining riders of the escort fell in behind the buggy.
Turning back to the stable, Benteen walked to the packhorse to unload it first. “You made yourself an enemy, Benteen.” Jessie Trumbo spoke quietly. Benteen still counted the rider as a friend.
A reply didn’t seem necessary, but he stared after the buggy disappearing down the street. Most of the men at the Ten Bar were his friends, but there were some who weren’t. It was this tangled weave of friendship and enmity in a rough, short-tempered land that kept the aloof interest in his dark eyes. “Is it all right if I stow my gear inside, Stoney?” he asked the stablehand instead.
“Sure.” The aging, semi-crippled man nodded.
Benteen carried the pack inside the stable and into a small office dusty with hay chaff. Opening the pack, he slung the holstered revolver over his shoulder for the time being and removed his rifle. He went back outside to unsaddle the chalk-faced bay.
“Where’s Barnie?” Jessie asked, leaning over his saddle horn. “I thought he went with you.”
“He did.” Benteen hooked the stirrup over the saddle horn and began loosening the cinch. “I left him up in Montana Territory north of the Yellowstone. He’s lookin’ after my homestead claim until I can bring a herd up in the spring.”
“Montana.” Jessie sat up, whistling under his breath in surprise. “Then you are pulling out. You didn’t just tell Boston that to be talking.”
“Nope.” Benteen lifted the heavy saddle off the horse’s back, a glint of pride flashing in his dark eyes.
“Where you gonna get a herd? Are you takin’ your pa’s?”
“I thought I’d spend the winter beating the thickets and putting together a herd of mavericks.” Benteen wasn’t counting on his father pulling up stakes and going with him, taking what was left of his herd. “I could use somebody good with a rope to come along.”
Jessie grinned. “It’ll be pure hell chasin’ down longhorns in all that scrub, but it sounds better than ‘yes-sirring’ Mr. Moneybags.”
Benteen hefted the saddle onto his shoulder and carried it into the stable to leave it with the rest of his gear. When he came out, Jessie and the young cowboy had ropes around the necks of his two horses and were leading them away. Stoney limped up to stand beside him.
“You can have the gray gelding in the first stall,” he said. “Jest turn him loose when you’re through with him. He’ll find his own way back. Always does.”
“Thanks, Stoney.” He picked up the rifle he’d leaned against the side of the stable and started down the dusty street.
Several blocks down the street, he came to one of the few wooden sidewalks. His footsteps were heavy with fatigue, his spurs rattling with each leaden stride. Although his body was bone-weary, his eyes never ceased their restless scanning of the streets. But they paid little attention to the store buildings he passed, except to note customers going in or out.
“Benteen?” a female voice called out to him, uncertain.
He stopped, half-turning to glance behind him. A rawly sweet wind rushed through his system as he saw Lorna poised in the doorway of the milliner’s shop. The hesitancy left her expression and a smile curved the soft fullness of her lips. She seemed to glide across the sidewalk to him, the lightness of her footsteps barely making any sound at all. A blue ribbon swept the length of her long dark hair away from her face and left it to cascade in soft curls down her back. She was like spring, fresh and innocent in her long dress of white cotton with small blue flowers.
The top of her head barely reached his shoulder. Her brown eyes sparkled with the pleasure of seeing him. “I thought it was you.” Her voice sang to him.
His eyes drank in the essence of her like a thirsty man long without water. He’d forgotten what a little thing she was. Not so little, perhaps, Be
nteen corrected as his gaze noticed her firm young breasts pushing at the demure front of her gown that covered her all the way to her neck.
“Where have you been?” she asked as she scanned his haggard and disreputable appearance. “I was beginning to worry about you. The others came back from the drive months ago. Where have you been all this time?”
A surging warmth gentled his rough features. Benteen stroked her smooth cheek with his forefinger, wanting to do more than just touch her. “You sound just like a wife already,” he teased softly. He was conscious of his trail grime and unshaven face. The public street didn’t make this meeting any easier.
His remark made Lorna lower her gaze, betraying her excited shyness. At times, Lorna Pearce seemed to be a living contradiction. There was a Madonna-like quality to her features, yet her brown eyes could be bold and spirited, revealing an intelligence that she usually concealed in a womanly fashion. She was sometimes as gay and full of laughter as a young girl, and other times, very calm and self-confident. At the moment, she looked incredibly young—too young to be a wife; but she was seventeen, soon to be eighteen, definitely a marriageable age.
She slanted him a look, a sauciness behind her proper air. “If I were your wife, Chase Benteen Calder, I’d take after you with a rolling pin for being away so long without writing me a single word.”
He chuckled softly at the threat, not believing she was capable of anything that remotely resembled violence. His features were so solidly composed that when he smiled, the change in his expression was always complete and surprising. He looked over at the shop she’d come out of. “What are you doing here?” Her father’s general store—Pearce’s Emporium—was several blocks down the street. “Spending your father’s money on another hat?”
“No. I’m waiting to spend your money,” Lorna retorted. “I was visiting a friend.” She glanced toward the door, where a rather plain brown-haired girl was standing. “You remember Sue Ellen, don’t you? We went to school together,” she reminded him, and discreetly motioned for her girlfriend to come forward. “Her mother owns the millinery shop.”
The girl approached them timidly. “Hello, Mr. Calder,” she greeted him in a slightly breathless voice.
“Benteen,” he corrected, and wondered what the two girls had in common, besides Miss Hilda’s School for Young Ladies. “How are you, Sue Ellen?”
“Fine, thank you,” she murmured, barely opening her mouth.
