Emmy's Equal (7 page)

He turned and twirled his leather quirt in the air as if rounding up the men. “Let us be off, and let no more be said about it. We’ve upset the women enough.”

With a shake of his head, Señor Boteo passed the still grinning Cuddy. Stopping in front of Diego, he peered up at him. “Keep your eyes open, son. We’ll set a night watch over our flock. I suggest you do the same with your cattle.” He held up one finger. “Be vigilant. Never underestimate el chupa sangre. He is swift and smart, and he’s avoided capture for centuries.”

Diego nodded soberly. “Good advice, señor. If he comes on the Twisted-R, we’ll be ready.”

Cuddy snorted. “You’ll be ready. I’ll be snug in my bed. You won’t catch me lurking in a pasture all night because a mangy coyote killed a goat.”

Jerking his head at Diego, he climbed on his horse and reined it past the rig. “Let’s get going, now. The old man will be worried about the Danes. I don’t need to wind up on the bad side of a conniption.”

As Cuddy rode away, Diego ducked his head and mumbled in Spanish to Señor Boteo. The old gentleman patted him on the back. “Don’t trouble yourself, Diego. I overlook him now because he’s young, though Cuddy’s papa would do well to spend more time on that boy’s manners.” He led his stout mare around and swung into the saddle.

“
Adios,
amigo,” he called cheerfully to Diego and then tipped his hat. “Ladies ... Señor Dane ... very honored to meet you.” He whistled for his family to follow, and they rode off, leaving swirling clouds of dust in their wake.

Up ahead, Cuddy stood in his stirrups and motioned impatiently with his hat.

Diego mounted his horse and nodded at Papa. “Are we ready, sir?”

Papa unwound the reins from the brake. “As ready as we’re going to get, son.”

Diego and Cuddy traveled apart for the rest of the way, not side by side, laughing and exchanging good-natured teasing as they had before. For some reason it made Emmy sad.

“We’re just about there,” Papa announced.

Mama shaded her sensitive eyes and squinted up at him. “Are you certain, Willem? I’ve had my fill of this wagon.”

Papa nodded. “This old horse has ceased his plodding and picked up the pace pretty good. That’s a sure sign we’re nearing his stall.”

“Nice try, Willem,” Aunt Bertha muttered, “but I reckon your insight has more to do with that great big house sitting yonder.”

Emmy leaned to peer between her parents. Sure enough, a building loomed beyond the sprinkling of misshapen scrub trees Diego had called mesquite. They pulled past the gate under a large scrollwork sign that read BIENVENIDOS AL RANCHO R TORCIDO.

Mama attempted to pronounce the words, craning her neck as they passed beneath until she was nearly in Aunt Bertha’s lap. She nudged Papa. “What’s it mean, dear?”

He repeated the phrase under his breath then shook his head. “I don’t read much Spanish, Magda.”

Diego pulled his horse even with the wagon. “It says ‘Welcome,’ Mrs. Dane, ‘to the Twisted-R Ranch.’”

“I see.” Mama chuckled. “Well, that makes perfect sense, now don’t it?”

A large powder gray creature with big eyes stared from behind a barbed wire fence. He locked gazes with Aunt Bertha as they rode past as if he hadn’t witnessed anything quite like her.

Aunt Bert stared back with the same expression. “Will you look at that critter? He looks like a cow that’s had his parts took off and put back cockeyed.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “You don’t reckon it’s one of them bloodsuckers?”

Papa stifled a grin. “It’s a bull, Bertha. A Brahman to be exact.”

“That don’t look like no bull I ever seen. Look at his sad face and droopy ears. Why, his skin hangs slack as a bloodhound’s.” She pointed wildly. “Land sakes! He’s sportin’ a hump on his back! You sure he ain’t a camel, Willem?”

Papa laughed. “The Brahman’s a rare breed from India. Not many exist here in the States. John bought a couple from the King Ranch to start up a breeding program. From the looks of that big fellow, he has succeeded.”

The lane stretched for some distance in a line as straight as an arrow from the gate to the front of a large house. They came to a stop when the lane did, and Emmy stared toward the two-story structure fashioned from plastered stone blocks. Posts jutted at intervals from the top beneath a roof as flat as a fritter. Spacious balconies jutted from the upstairs windows where sheer white curtains billowed in the breeze. A covered patio larger than the living area of their home in Humble extended off the side, and a broad door cut from striking, red-streaked wood adorned the portico, opening onto a roomy porch. Two wide steps led down to the ground.

A tiny barking dog pulled Emmy’s attention beyond a nearby fence to a field where he chased an orange cat of impressive size to the edge of a pecan orchard then up a tree. The little brown dog danced around the trunk before planting his paws on it, yapping as if to say he was far too busy to entertain such shenanigans. Emmy grinned and spun on the seat to show her mama. Startled, she drew back, clutching her collar.

One of the largest men she’d ever seen, besides Nash, beamed up at them from the ground. He took off his hat and bowed his head. “Welcome, folks! John Holdsworth Rawson at your service.”

Diego’s chest swelled with pride as the big man approached the wagon to greet his guests. Barrel-chested and broad-shouldered, he cut a fine figure for a man his age.

Born in Europe, Mr. Rawson liked to say he got to Carrizo Springs as fast as he could. At the age of twenty, he’d stepped off the boat in New York Harbor without a backward glance at his mother country. He bragged about doffing his top hat at Lady Liberty then laying it aside along with his frock coat in exchange for a Stetson hat, suspenders, and chaps. In the winter, he added a fringed coat like those worn by his heroes, Teddy Roosevelt and his band of Rough Riders.

He’d laid aside his accent as well, for the most part. Unlike Mrs. Rawson, whose lilting voice flowed like the strains of a haunting melody.

Diego dismounted, his mind fixed on lending a hand to young Miss Dane, but Cuddy beat him to the draw. He stood smiling up at her, one arm held out for her to grip and the other hand hovering near her waist.

Distracted by them, he almost didn’t catch Mrs. Bloom when she tripped. By the time he steadied her, the family had reached Mr. Rawson. After hearty handshakes between the men, Mr. Rawson took the Dane women’s arms and escorted them to the porch.

A quick glance told Diego his boss had ordered more work done on the ranch in their absence. Someone had swept the ever-present sand from the brick-paved veranda and washed the gray dust from the house and outbuildings, allowing the adobe to gleam in the sun—nearly as bright as Mrs. Rawson’s smile, but nowhere close to the spark of pride in her husband’s eyes as his arm encircled her waist.

“May I present my dear wife, Katherine Eliza Colbeck Rawson, of the Halifax Colbecks?”

The mistress of the Twisted-R Ranch looked awfully pretty. She’d pinned most of her blond hair on the top of her head, except for one long braid pulled over the shoulder of her new blue dress. She’d done whatever women do to make their waistlines disappear, and the delicate leather shoes peeking from under her hem were definitely not work boots.

Mrs. Rawson smiled. “You’ll have to forgive my husband. He hasn’t yet embraced the relaxed charm of our adopted country. He behaves as if we’re still on the banks of the Ryburn.” She held out her hand. “Please, call me Kate.”

The elder Dane woman accepted her handclasp. “Magdalena. But you can call me Magda. Willem’s spoken quite highly of you, Kate.” She took her daughter’s arm and pulled her forward. “This is our Emily.”

Mrs. Rawson took both the girl’s hands. “Hello, Emily. Gracious, how lovely you are.”

Emily bowed her head.

With a flourish, Mrs. Dane presented the small woman. “And this is my dearest friend, Bertha Bloom.”

“Hello, Bertha. I’m honored to meet each of you. We’re so happy you’ve come. During your stay you must promise to consider this your home.”

Mr. Rawson motioned to Cuddy. “Of course you met our boy, Cuthbert.”

Cuddy cleared his throat and tipped his hat at Mrs. Dane. “Let’s stick with Cuddy, ma’am.”

His father frowned. “I’ve told you before, don’t be embarrassed by your name, son. It was good enough for my old papa.”

If she was trying to ease his discomfort, Cuddy’s mother only made things worse. “Cuthbert is a delightful Old English name.” She preened and winked at Mrs. Dane. “It means bright champion, you know.” She patted Cuddy’s face. “The perfect moniker for you, dear.”

A rush of color flooded Cuddy’s cheeks. He shot a glance at Emily Dane and so did Diego. Cuddy could relax. The girl seemed oblivious to his humiliation, and in fact to the whole conversation.

She stood with her hands laced behind her back, her chin lifted. The glow of the setting sun had turned her hair and skin the color of crushed peaches. A look of wonder lit her face as she peered around at the grounds.

“And this is our daughter, Greta.”

For the first time, Diego noticed Greta standing in the shadows of the portico. At her father’s mention, she stepped into the light and curtsied. Having just pulled his gaze from Miss Dane’s thick mound of white curls and full ruby lips, Greta’s blond hair appeared wispy and dirty by comparison, her lips thin and pinched. Was it only the day before when he found her so attractive?

Feeling guilty but unable to stop, he cut his eyes back to Miss Dane for one more assessment. His breath caught as she lowered her gaze to a goosefoot plant at her feet. Her lowered lashes gave her big eyes a pleasing, drowsy appeal until she raised them and caught him staring. The sleepy look melted into a sweet smile.

The tiny dimples he’d discovered hiding near the outer corners of Greta’s mouth were no match for the deep impressions in Miss Dane’s cheeks, clearly visible from a distance. He remembered seeing a hint of them even when her expression was sober. Those dimples defied description, as did her smile. Held in its grip, Diego stood rooted to the spot until she lowered her gaze and released him.

Mr. Rawson loudly cleared his throat.

Diego glanced around to find all eyes fixed on him, including his mother’s, who had appeared on the side of the house. Her eyes darted over to Miss Dane, wide and wary as if she’d seen a band of restless spirits.

His boss gave an uneasy laugh. “As I was saying, Diego here is our top hand. Couldn’t run the place without this boy ... when his head’s not in the clouds, that is.”

The rush of warmth to Diego’s face surely put Cuddy’s blush to shame. He wondered what sort of doe-eyed fool he’d looked gawking across the yard all slack-jawed with his tongue hanging out. Anger followed his embarrassment when no one seemed ready to find something else to look at. Especially Greta, who stood spellbound watching him. Diego’s eyes sought hers, but she turned away.

Mr. Rawson’s booming voice broke the silence. “Well, don’t just stand there, son. You and Diego unload their bags.” He spun on his heel and held out wide, welcoming arms to his guests. “So, who’s hungry? Kate and the girls have been in that kitchen for days, stirring savory-smelling dishes. Let’s go see what they’ve cooked up.”

Mrs. Dane took Mrs. Rawson’s offered arm. “I hope you haven’t gone to too much trouble on our account.”

Her hostess patted her hand. “Nonsense. We love to entertain. Lord knows, we don’t often get the opportunity living so far out. Besides, John prepared most of the meat. There’s a plump hog roasting on the spit as we speak.”

Cuddy passed Diego, stopping just behind him to speak low in his ear. “Don’t waste your time staring, big brother. I saw that little filly first, so she’s burned with my brand.” He shifted closer. “The old man deems me second place in running this ranch, but even he knows I’m good at what I do best.”

Diego snorted. “Drunk again, I see.”

Cuddy didn’t answer, so Diego looked behind him. Shoulders shaking with laughter, the cantankerous boy strolled toward the rig to unload the Danes’ luggage.

Diego drew in deeply of the dry, dusty air, picking up the scent of John Rawson’s fire pit. Though he loved Cuddy like a brother, at the moment he wouldn’t mind seeing him lashed to the spit, spinning alongside the roasting pig.

“Not this one, Chihowa Palami! A lively spirit, yes, but not this unbroken spawn of a cougar. Not this cat with hungry, searching eyes.”

Melatha watched as her vision-come-to-life stood apart from the others the way a buck kept his distance from the herd. The girl sized up her surroundings, especially Isi, like a panther before the kill. Her claws unsheathed each time she felt his eyes on her, and she felt them, no mistake about it. She fooled Isi with her slant-eyed glances—drinking him down in great gulps to quench her thirst—but she couldn’t fool Melatha.

There was no denying the white curls or her cool, sky blue gaze. Yet how could a girl like this be God’s will for her son? Impossible!

Melatha had witnessed disaster when forces of nature collided. Fire struck the ground, splitting trees and burning forests. Dark, swirling whirlwinds thundered from the clouds, uprooting oaks and boulders, leaving a wide path of destruction. This power would be a trifle compared to a clash between White Hair and Isi.

Her attention crossed the yard to Greta standing as straight as a lotebush thorn, her hands clenched by her sides as she watched Isi lean into the wagon bed to gather the Danes’ luggage. Emotions warred on the poor girl’s face. What first appeared to be seething anger and outrage became jaws slack with fear. For the first time since Melatha met Greta, the mantle of security entitled to her as John Rawson’s daughter had slipped, as if she suddenly realized her father couldn’t buy her everything.

Dragging her feet, Greta turned and followed her guests inside the house.

“Mother?”

She spun to face him. “You startled me, Isi.”

“Who are you spying on? The Rawsons and their guests ... or me?”

She tucked guilty hands behind her back. “I thought no one could see me.”

“No one did, except for me. What are you doing here?”

“Mrs. Rawson asked me to help Rosita and her sisters in the kitchen.”

He drew back. “Cooking or serving?”

“What difference does it make?”

He snorted. “A lot. Mr. Rawson asked me to join them tonight. I won’t have my own mother serve me at that fancy table when she should be seated beside me. It would be hard enough knowing you’re standing in front of the stove.”

She grinned. “I stand in front of the stove for you every day, son. Serve you, too. Don’t let such high-minded notions trouble your soul.” She patted his arm. “I’ll gladly lay my hand to whatever task Mrs. Rawson requires of me. It’s the least I can do to repay her great kindness.”

One of Isi’s men barreled past behind them. His head jerked around as he caught sight of Diego, and he drew to a breathless halt. “He’s out again, Diego.”

Isi stared over his shoulder. “Again? That’s not possible.”

The man’s eyes shifted to the ground. “
Sí, es
muy
posible.
He’s not in the corral or the pasture. Nowhere on the grounds. He’s gone.”

Isi closed his eyes and let his head fall back. “Saddle my horse. I’ll be right there.”

He turned and tapped Melatha’s chin with his work-roughened finger. “I have to go track that stubborn horse again. Tell Mrs. Rawson I’ll be back in time for dinner.” He furrowed his brow. “Don’t let me return and find you dishing beans.”

“What shall I tell Greta?”

Just as she planned, her question caught him off guard. “Leave Greta to me, if you don’t mind.” He tweaked her nose. “It’s none of your business.” Winking, he sauntered away, pausing once to tip his hat before rounding the house.

“Humph! None of my business?” Skirting a blackbrush thicket, she made her way to the back of the house, grumbling as she took to the steps. “We will see, my little deer. As surely as the sun sleeps at dusk, we will see.”

Not that she believed Greta to be the woman God had for Isi, but after seeing the latest contender for his affection, Greta would do to distract him until the right one arrived.