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The promise sent her pulse spinning again.
3
It didn’t seem to matter how close her relationship was to her mother, Lorna had difficulty bringing up the subject of the way Benteen made her feel sometimes. She had so little to use in comparison, since she hadn’t been attracted to any of her other suitors. She had fallen in love with Benteen right from the start.
“What was it you wanted to talk to me about, Lorna?” her mother prompted.
Lorna turned from the window, a little startled by the question. She had been searching for a way to lead up to the subject. “I … was thinking about what Benteen said last night—about moving to Montana.” It seemed the best place to begin.
“It seems so far away, doesn’t it?” Her mother’s eyes looked misty. “Your father and I are going to miss you terribly.”
“I think I’m a little scared,” she admitted. “I thought we’d live close by. I’m not sure I want to go there.”
“A woman’s place is with her husband,” her mother reminded her gently. “You still want to marry him, don’t you?”
“Yes.” Lorna didn’t have to hesitate about that. “It’s just that …” She touched her fingertips to her lips, remembering the rough pressure of his kiss. “There’re so many things I don’t know,” she sighed at last.
“Every bride feels the same way.” Her mother smiled. “And we all seem to have to learn on our own. I remember I was the worst cook when your father and I were married. It’s a miracle he survived that first year.”
“I think I can manage to cook and keep house. But what about when we have a baby?” That uncomfortable feeling ran through her again. “I mean, presuming that we do have a baby.”
“I hope you will. I hope you have several.”
“I don’t know.” Lorna turned away in vague agitation. “Sometimes when I think about…” She stopped, unable to finish the sentence.
“It probably won’t be easy in the beginning,” her mother said. “But after you are married awhile, I think you’ll be more able to accept the idea, especially if you want children.”
“I … suppose.” Lorna was troubled by her mother’s reply. It seemed to confirm the girl talk at school. Sex was something a proper lady endured. There wasn’t any enjoyment in it, not unless the girl was immoral.
It was better if she didn’t mention to her mother the way Benteen had made her feel. The excitement that sent those funny little tremors through her body. She’d simply have to learn to overcome them. She wanted to be a proper wife.
It was midmorning when Benteen reached his father’s Cee Bar Ranch. Once they’d talked about a partnership, but the Crash of ’73 had wiped out that dream. The hard facts of earning a living had forced Benteen to work elsewhere while his father continued his attempt to save the ranch. Last winter’s blizzards had virtually written the end to that dream—the blizzards and Judd Boston.
Benteen had had only a vague suspicion about worked-over brands until he’d voiced it yesterday to Boston. Benteen was fairly sure now that the banker had been taking a cow here, a steer there. There were a couple of unscrupulous characters on his payroll, and Benteen believed he’d found the reason why. It was unlikely he could prove it. He wasn’t even sure how much difference it would make if he could. At the most, his father had probably lost fifty head over the past five years. The trouble was, his operation was so small, fifty head hurt him. Numbers—that was the secret.
Benteen had observed closely Judd Boston’s operation at the Ten Bar. He’d learned a lot, and he knew cattle. Judd Boston had inadvertently taught him business sense, growth, and markets.
Halting the gray gelding in front of the barn, he dismounted and stripped his saddle and gear from the horse. He slapped it hard on the rump, sending it down the rutted lane they had just traveled. The horse would show up in a couple of days at the livery stable, wanting its ration of oats and corn.
After putting the saddle and bridle away, Benteen carried his gear to the house, a simple white frame house that was beginning to show its age. There were only four rooms—a kitchen with a wood-burning range and an inside well pump to provide running water in the house; a front room with a stone fireplace for heat, a pecan desk, and a horsehair sofa; and two small bedrooms.
Benteen set his rifle in the rack by the desk and took his bedroll and saddlebags into the
smaller of the two bedrooms—the one that had always been his. There was no sign of his father, but he hadn’t expected to find him home in the middle of the day.
It had been months since he had been home, yet nothing had changed. He looked at the picture occupying the honored position on the fireplace mantel. The ease went out of him as he walked over to the blackened hearth and took down the ornately carved oval frame containing the photograph.
The woman was beautiful. There was no doubt about that. Benteen suspected that the prim pose and the faded daguerreotype didn’t do her justice. Her hair was blond—the color of wild honey, his father had claimed —and her eyes were as dark as her hair was light. It was a bold combination that was even more striking when combined with her strong, yet feminine features.
But Benteen didn’t see the beauty of the woman who was his mother when he looked at the picture. He noticed the self-centered determination and the hunger for something more out of life in her eyes. Was he bitter? Yes.
If it had been his choice, the framed photograph of Madelaine Calder would have been used for kindling a long time ago. But it hadn’t been his choice. He returned the picture to its proper place on the mantel and entered the kitchen to boil some coffee.
His father rode in just before sundown. Not a demonstrative man, Seth Calder greeted his son with reserve, despite the long separation. There was a strong resemblance between the two in their height and coloring, but Benteen had a lot of rough edges yet; his father had been worn and polished smooth.
Few words were exchanged while his father washed up and Benteen put their supper on the table. Not until the meal was over and his father had leaned back in his chair was there any serious attempt at conversation.
An occasional cigar was one of the few luxuries Seth Calder permitted himself to enjoy anymore. He lit one now and puffed on it, rolling it between his lips in a silent savoring. His attitude and appearance seemed to indicate prosperity rather than the edge of bankruptcy. No matter how futile Benteen considered the struggle to keep the ranch, he admired his father’s lack of self-pity—the front he continued to display even if it was false.
