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A space cleared at one of the washbasins. Cat walked over to it, rolled back the sleeves of her shirt and washed her hands, then splashed water on her face. But the refreshing wetness failed to chase away that dull, heavy feeling that plagued her.
Jessy stepped up to the basin next to hers and ran a critical eye over Cat, noting the faint shadows under her eyes. “Are you okay?”
“Sure.” But her quick smile wasn’t totally convincing.
When she left the grub line, Cat glanced without interest at the food piled on her plate. For most of her pregnancy, she had been ravenous, devouring everything in sight. It was a surprise to discover she wasn’t the least bit hungry. She blamed it on the tiredness she felt, and wondered if she had the strength to get through the rest of the day, troubled that she might have started something she couldn’t finish.
Cat squared her shoulders, trying to throw off the weariness, and glanced around, looking for some quiet, out-of-the way place to sit. Her father called to her and motioned to the vacant campstool beside him. She hesitated, reluctant to come under the scrutiny of his too-sharp eyes. Just then a slim, narrow-shouldered cowboy stepped from behind one of the stock trailers, his hat pulled low on his forehead, half hiding his face. A wash of relief swept through her when she recognized Culley. Quickly she signaled to her father that she would be joining her uncle, then walked over to him.
“Hi. Did you just get here?”
“A few minutes ago.” Culley turned over a five-gallon bucket and motioned for her to sit down. Cat readily accepted the makeshift seat while he squatted beside her. “Thou
ght you’d be back at The Homestead,” he said.
She shook her head and poked her fork into the potatoes on her plate. “The doctor said I should get plenty of exercise. It’s supposed to make it easier when my time comes.”
Culley supposed that was true. He didn’t know too much about woman things, and he wasn’t comfortable talking about them. He changed the subject. “They took old man Anderson to the hospital yesterday.”
Cat looked up in surprise. “What happened?”
“Fedderson says he had a stroke. They don’t know if he’s gonna make it.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” An instant image of Emma Anderson flashed in her mind, along with the memory of the vicious slurs the woman had hurled. Determined to block it, Cat took a quick bite of potato, but it lodged somewhere in her throat.
“Fedderson said Anderson’s been wandering around town like a lost soul all spring. I guess he didn’t know what to do with himself without fields to plow and crops to plant.”
“She’ll probably blame me for that, too.” Cat returned the fork to her plate, leaving it lie there.
Culley gave her a worried look. “I didn’t mean to upset you. I—”
“It’s okay. Really,” she insisted.
“Aren’t you going to eat that?” he asked when she set the plate aside.
“I’m not hungry. I had too big a breakfast, I guess,” she lied, then turned to him with a masking smile. “I don’t suppose you’d mind getting me a cup of coffee, would you?”
“Course not.” Straightening, he went to fetch it.
Alone, Cat sagged back against the stock trailer, letting her weary muscles relax. The baby kicked, drawing a wince from her that was quickly followed by a smile. She rubbed a soothing hand over her protruding stomach, seeking to quiet the active infant within. It was good simply to sit and feel the wind on her face, spiced with the smells of men, horses, food, and the rawness of the land.
Culley came back with her coffee. Thanking him, Cat took the metal mug and sipped at the scalding hot drink, not talking, knowing Culley wouldn’t mind. He had never been a man given to idle conversation. Nursing his own cup of coffee, he leaned a narrow shoulder against a corner of the trailer, content with her company.
After a time the men began wandering back to the picket line, their noon meal eaten, their coffee drunk, and their cigarettes smoked. Cat lingered, taking advantage of every minute of respite she could. Across the way, her father rose somewhat stiffly from his campstool and headed toward the picket area. Cat noticed the way he favored his right leg, and guessed his hip was bothering him again.
When he drew level with her, he paused, studying her with probing eyes. “Are you going back out?”
She nodded. “In a minute. After I make a nature call.”
“I’ll be heading back to The Homestead around five o’clock. You can ride with me,” he told her, then his gaze sliced to Culley. “We’ll be cutting out your cattle.”
A small movement of his head was Culley’s only acknowledgment. After her father moved out of sight, Culley pushed away from the trailer and murmured to Cat, “I’d better be getting my horse.”
He sloped off, disappearing behind one of the stock trailers where he had left his horse tied. With his departure, Cat summoned the energy and got to her feet, automatically pressing a hand against the nagging pain in her lower back. She carried her plate and coffee cup over to the wreck pan, then went behind the stock trailer, letting its bulk screen her and afford some privacy while she relieved herself.
She had barely taken two steps toward the picket line when the first sharp and twisting pain sliced through her, driving Cat to her knees, stealing both her breath and her voice. She grabbed one of the stock trailer slats and hung on, stunned by the powerful force of the contraction. Her mind kept saying the baby wasn’t due for another week, but her body told her differently.
After an eternity of seconds, the pain subsided, leaving her shaken and gulping in air. With one hand on her belly, Cat pulled herself upright and stood for a minute, fighting through the initial waves of panic to gather her composure, organize her thoughts.
