Lord of the High Lonesome Page 2

  Shortly before the turn of the century, a teenage boy named James Bonner came to work on the ranch for the fall roundup and stayed on for the winter. Ten years later he was still there along with his bride. Three generations of Bonners were born on the ranch, Nate Bonner, his daughter and Kit. Kit loved it fiercely and treated it as her own, with just cause.

  Yet, in ail these decades, only once had its legal owner seen his property and that had been the grandson of the original baron. Kit had heard his brief visit described many times by her grandparents. That baron was dead. His title and property had been passed on to his male successor. Kit seethed with the unfairness of it.

  “What about something to eat?” Her grandfather’s voice broke into her thoughts.

  Sighing, Kit slowly straightened. “There’s some beef stew in the refrigerator. I’ll warm it up.”

  “Why don’t you make some biscuits and fix it in the oven the way Martha used to?” Nate suggested. “All right,” she agreed with little enthusiasm.

  Although her stomach said she was hungry, Kit wasn’t really interested in what she ate. As she walked to the kitchen she saw the first flurry of snowflakes whirling outside the windowpanes. She crossed her fingers that this first blizzard in the month of February would not be as severe as the storm that had ushered out January.

  THE WINTER HAD PROVED to be relatively mild and spring had come on time, if a bit blustery. Their calving losses had been at a minimum for a change and the year was off to a good start.

  Kit sat astride the blaze-faced bay horse, the shaggy remnants of its winter hair still clinging to its coat. It was a cool May afternoon with a stiff breeze blowing from the north. Her mouth tasted gritty from the fine granules of sand the wind carried. Kit knew it powdered her face.

  Her faded brown Stetson was pulled low on her forehead to keep it from being blown off. As always, the golden brown length of her hair was atop her head, tucked in the inside crown of her hat. A long-sleeved, flannel shirt in a green and gold plaid provided warmth from the cool temperature, as did the quilted black vest zipped to the neck. Leather gloves covered the hands holding the reins. Lithe and slim, she resembled a young boy in her faded and patched Levi’s and worn-down boots.

  Her gaze slowly traveled down the length of fence row. “I swear, Reno,” she muttered to the gelding, “I don’t see a single break in the fence.”

  But a half dozen cows and one calf were grazing on the other side of the wire next to the graveled road, proof that somewhere there was a gap in the fence. Dismounting, she looped the reins around a post and took a pair of pliers from the saddlebags.

  “First —” she pulled out a staple holding the top strand of barbwire to the post “— we’d better get those cows back in here before they get hit by a car. Then we can look for the hole.”

  Dropping all three strands and stuffing the staples in her pocket, Kit remounted and walked the snorting bay over the lowered wires. The cows raised their heads as she circled them to drive them back to the home range. One black Angus gave her a wild-eyed look and trotted into the ditch, heading the wrong way.

  “You old crow,” Kit cursed and reined the bay horse to intercept the cow and turn her back. “I might have known you were leading this bunch. You just can’t stay home, can you? Always looking for a loose wire.”

  With her escape blocked, the Angus rejoined the other cows ambling toward the lowered wires. The cow quickly shouldered her way into the lead and trotted over the lowered wires while the rest followed. They stopped on the other side of the fence, watching as Kit rode the bay over the wires before dismounting to restring them on the post.

  Hammering the staple into place again, Kit glanced at the ringleader of the escapees. “I’m not going to keep chasing you back in all summer,” she warned. “One more time and you are going to the sale barn.”

  The other cows drifted away, but the one remained until that section of the fence was again intact and Kit had remounted. There was still the problem of finding where they had got out originally and that meant riding every inch of the fence line. If it wasn’t found and repaired, the cow would make use of it again.

  It was a boring, tedious job riding fence, but necessary. Kit walked her horse slowly beside the row of posts and barbwire, following the dips and rises of the rugged terrain. Her gaze was alert for any looseness of the wire. Still, she almost rode past the spot. She might never have found it if it hadn’t been for a tuft of black hair caught on a barb.

  Yet that particular section looked very sturdy. When Kit pushed at the top wire with a gloved hand, she realized its look was deceiving. The wooden fence post had rotted at the base and could be lifted completely off the ground, wire, post and all. Her repairs were flimsy at best. A new steel post was what was needed.

  Her ride had taken her nearly to the lane that led from the graveled county road back to the ranch. Kit decided she might as well check out the rest of the fence before heading back. The particular stretch of ground where the lane was relatively level. A flash of sunlight on something metallic ought her eye.

  A car was parked half a mile beyond the entrance gate and cattle guard. Kit reined in the bay and stared, at first thinking it might be a neighbor. But the car wasn’t one she had seen before. That indicated a stranger, a curiosity seeker or a tourist.

  The ranch had always maintained a very low profile, never advertising the identity of its owner. It was a policy that had been in existence long before Kit was born and the privacy of the grounds had been just as jealously guarded since. Whoever the person was, Kit was determined that he or she had better have an excellent reason for trespassing.

  Reining the bay in the direction of the car, she touched a spur to its flank to send the horse cantering forward. A man stood near the front of the car, looking off in the opposite direction. At the sound of Kit’s approach, he turned and waited.

  She stopped the horse a few feet in front of his car and studied the stranger. And he was a stranger. Kit had never seen him before. Tall with a rangy build, he wore a brown corduroy jacket with leather patches at the elbows. The cut of the material seemed to accent the width of his shoulders. A pair of glittering hazel eyes returned her cool look with arrogant ease, and that irritated Kit. The bay horse seemed to sense her sudden flash of tension and stamped restlessly beneath her.

  “Were you looking for something?” her husky voice challenged, its tone unfriendly although couched in a polite phrase.

  “I’m trying to locate the Flying Eagle Ranch,” he informed her in a voice that was low-pitched but with a definite American accent.

  Kit’s gaze flicked in the direction he had been looking when she had ridden up. “You won’t find it out there,” she answered shortly.

  His mouth thinned into a cold smile at her reply. The movement accented the slashing grooves running from nose to mouth and the lean hollows of his cheeks. The features were harshly masculine from the wide, intelligent forehead, down an aquiline nose to the powerful slant of his jaw. The stiff breeze ruffled the thick dark brown hair growing crisply away from his face.

  “I was trying to get a glimpse of the brand on those cattle over there,” he explained with a trace of amused contempt. “There wasn’t any sign on the gate by the road.”

  “No, there wasn’t,” Kit agreed, angered by his attitude. “Are you a salesman?”

  “No.”

  “There isn’t any sign on the gate because the Flying Eagle Ranch isn’t open to visitors and you are trespassing on private property. About a half a mile up this lane there’s a spot where you can turn your car around. Use it.”

  There was a faint narrowing of his gaze, a gleam entering his eyes that Kit didn’t understand. All she knew was that she didn’t like it. It made her feel defensive when she was in the right.

  “Are you ordering me off?”

  Just for an instant something in his tone made Kit question her action. “Are you expected at the ranch?” she countered.

  “No, I —
”

  “Then I’m ordering you to leave,” she interrupted briskly and reined the bay to the side of the lane. “And I hope you don’t force me to call the county sheriff. Because if I do, you won’t get by with a warning. I’ll have you arrested.”

  There were several seconds of charged silence before the man turned and walked to the car door. Kit concealed her surprise. For some reason she simply hadn’t expected this man to back down despite her threat. He hadn’t seemed the type. He was much too self-assured, or so she had thought.

  Now that Kit was no longer transmitting the tenseness of challenge to the bay, the horse stood quietly along the roadside with Kit relaxed in the saddle. A heavy layer of accumulated dust and dirt covered the rear of the car as it drove past her and she wasn’t able to see where it was from, but she suspected the license plates were out of state.

  There wasn’t any reason to wait to see if he obeyed her. Precious working time would be wasted if she waited to see if he used the turnaround a half mile ahead. If he didn’t and continued on to the ranch headquarters, Nate or one of the hands would be there to send him on his way.

  Turning the horse back toward the fence, Kit listened to the pleasant swishing sound it made as it trotted through the tall, thick grasses. Part of her mind wondered which of the townspeople had let it slip about the ranch. Generally they recognized the ranch’s long-held policy of anonymity and respected it. After all, they had the château of a marquis to draw the tourists, and a marquis was certainly better than a baron.

  It didn’t matter. The stranger would soon be on his way, if not by her order then by someone else’s. Kit remembered the prickling of antagonism she had felt when she confronted him, but she had never been easy with strangers, always keeping herself aloof, hardened against them. She had never bemoaned her lack of friends because she had never had any. Hers was a private, solitary existence. That was the best — and safest.

  At the fence line she turned and followed it past the closed gate. The brisk wind was quickly blowing away the dust cloud kicked up by the wheels of the car out of sight below the ridge. With a last glance in its direction, Kit dismissed it from her mind and concentrated on the job at hand.

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  Chapter Two

  TIRED AND GRIMY from the long day’s work, Kit rode the bay into the ranch yard. Its step was quick, its ears pricked, eager to reach the barn and the night’s ration of oats. But Kit noticed Lew Simpson over by the well and turned the reluctant horse away from the barn.

  “What’s wrong?” She reined the horse to a stop and leaned forward to see for herself.

  Lew Simpson was on the other side of forty, a short, wiry man. The sweat-stained hat he wore concealed the fact that he had only half a halo of hair, the top of his head virtually bald. He’d come to work for the Flying Eagle before Kit was born and had been a mentor, an uncle and a workmate. In a typical cowboy fashion he worked hard and played harder.

  “The pump was actin’ up.” He wiped the grease from his hands onto his Levi’s and reached for the cover that protected the motor. “I guess it needed a little oil and some cussin’. It’s runnin’ fine now.”

  “Good.” Kit sat back in the saddle.

  “Did ya —”

  The clink of metal against metal diverted her attention to the shed. The tractor was parked in front of it and Kit could see someone kneeling next to the front wheels.

  “What’s wrong with the H?” she demanded.

  “I think Kyle’s busted it again,” Lew answered.

  Kit drew in a quick angry breath and held it for a second before snapping an order. “About a quarter mile west of the gate a fence post has rotted through at the base. Tomorrow I want you to take one of the new steel posts from the shed out there and replace it. I temporarily jerry-rigged it, but it will never hold.”

  Without waiting for an acknowledgment she spurred the bay around and hurried him to the shed. Her expression had hardened into forbiddingly grim lines when she stopped a few feet from the crouching figure.

  “What happened?” Her husky voice was harsh and cutting.

  The man didn’t look up, but Kit saw the dull flush creep into his freckled face. Kyle Johanson was no older than Kit, a town boy who had decided ranching was going to be his profession. He’d barely known one end of the horse from the other when he had signed on over a year ago, but he tried hard, too hard sometimes, and was ridiculously careless other times. His saving grace was that he was very mechanically minded, but he seemed to break things just to repair them.

  “It’s the steering rod, I think.” He shifted uneasily and pretended to peer at the wheels in a study of concentration. “It might be busted.” “How did it happen?” Kit demanded.

  “I hit a rut. That last rain really tore up the road,” he hedged. “I was headed for the yard when Frank came and told me —”

  “Hot-dogging it again, I suppose,” she lashed out, impatient with his endless variety of excuses. “When are you going to learn that tractors aren’t made for racing? You can’t go galloping around on them like a horse!”

  “I know,” he murmured lamely.

  “I want that tractor fixed by tomorrow,” Kit snapped. “And I don’t give a damn whether you have to drive to Bismarck or Billings to find the parts. You got that?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he mumbled, but his light blue eyes flashed her a look of rebellious anger despite his subservient response.

  Kit knew the reason. However justified the tongue-lashing might be, his manly pride resented that it came from a female. She checked her temper and nudged the horse away from the tractor, aware that if he voiced any objection to her authority she would have to fire him. Just now, she couldn’t afford to spend the time looking for more help. Discretion insisted that she retreat and not push him any further.

  As Kit walked the horse away she heard Kyle mutter, “What’s got into her anyway? She had no call to crawl on me like that. I didn’t do it on purpose.”

  Lew must have been approaching as she left, because she heard him answer, in a consoling and faintly guarded tone, “Everybody has a bad day now and again, boy.”

  “She’s a regular shrew. It’s no wonder nobody ever asks her out. She acts like a damned virgin queen inst —”

  “That’s enough, boy.” Lew’s voice sliced off the rest of the sentence.

  There was a brief stab of pain in her chest, but Kit lifted her chin and rode a little straighter in the saddle.

  Bitterly, she wondered who it was that had said words were not sticks and stones. She had learned long ago that it was a lie.

  Her diagonal route across the ranch yard to the barn took Kit directly past the front porch of the Big House with its stout log columns. The rough-cut planking of its exterior walls resembled pictures she had seen of hunting lodges in the Rockies. The sprawling, one-story structure was impressive in its rustic simplicity, blending with the rugged splendor of the Dakota badlands.

  Usually Kit avoided even glancing at the Big House, but her eyes were drawn to it by some inner compulsion. The lowering sun cast a long patch of light into the shadows of the porch and she could see the heavy wooden front door standing open. Vaguely she remembered Nate saying something about airing the house this morning and she supposed that he had neglected to shut it up. He seemed to be becoming more and more absentminded about some things.

  Impatiently she turned the bay gelding toward the hitching rail in front of the porch. Dismounting, Kit wrapped the reins loosely around the rail and walked up the three steps to the porch, her spurs jingling faintly.

  The sound of her footsteps echoed hollowly on the planked floorboards as she walked across the porch to the screen door. Reaching to close the front door, Kit hesitated. Nate had probably opened windows in the house, she decided, and reached to open the screen door instead.

  Entering the wide entrance hall, Kit paused, fighting the waves of bitter and hostile resentment the house always caused to well within her. Th
e cool breeze filtering through the rooms had not banished all the staleness from the air and its musty odor filled her nose.

  A half a dozen steps into the hallway, Kit noticed the door to the library-den standing open. Her nerves tensed, their ends suddenly raw and exposed. Unwillingly she let her gaze be pulled to the open door and into the room.

  The blackened hearth of a fireplace made of red brick was on the outer wall directly opposite the door. On the floor in front of it was the brown hide of a grizzly bear, its yellow white fanglike teeth bared in a permanent snarl. It was a trophy of the first baron, hunted and killed when it began marauding the ranch’s cattle herds. The grizzly had probably been one of the last in the badlands, the predatory species now extinct in the area like the wolf and the cougar.

  But it wasn’t the bearskin rug that captured Kit’s attention, it was the portrait above the fireplace mantel. Despite the dimness of the room, illuminated only by the sunlight glimmering through the dusty windowpanes, Kit could still make out the features of the face in oils.

  Against a background of light blue was the face of a man in his prime. Waving, sand-colored hair fell across his smooth forehead at a rakish angle. Despite the somber lines of his handsome features, there was a wickedly engaging glint to the blue eyes staring back at Kit and drawing her into the room with the irresistible pull of metal to a magnet.

  Her fingers slowly curled into her palms, turning her hands into tight, gloved fists. A seemingly bottomless hatred glittered savagely in her brown eyes as she gazed at the image of the grandson of the first baron. The violence of her raging emotions trembled through her, stiffening every sinew into finely tempered steel. Not even the knowledge that he was dead lessened her reaction to his portrait.

  Searing anger and resentment coursed through her veins. It seethed like a volcano on the verge of eruption, white-hot heat firing her blood. It was a fury that refused to be subdued or suppressed, revealed in every taut line of her vibrating body and the clenched fists held rigidly at her side. Scalding tears sprang into her eyes, Kit’s only means of emotional release, but not one slipped over the dam of her lashes.