A Tradition of Pride Page 4

  Although she couldn't see his face, she could feel his speculative gaze studying her. It was an uncomfortable sensation, like being under a microscope.

  "I think you are mistaken, Mr. MacQuade. Every married couple has to find a place to, live. Our choice was here."

  They were near the center fountain. Moonlight streamed over his shoulder to gild her creamy white complexion with its silvery glow. The black shawl framed her oval face in a medieval fashion, highlighting her delicate bone structure and the royal carriage of her head.

  "I know your father is happy with the choice." His tone became impersonal, losing its inquisitive note. "When I first came here, I was curious why a man as young and fit as your father would need a manager for the farm. He is entirely capable of running it himself. Now that I've learned about his plans for a book, I understand his heights. But don't you find it boring, or are you saying that you are content being a housewife, keeping the home-fires burning for whenever your husband comes home?"

  Her frosty green eyes sliced sharply to his face in time to see the sardonic curl of his mouth as he openly mocked her. She detested his arrogance more at that moment than she had ever done before.

  "My life is fulfilling," was the only reply Lara gave to his taunting question. She knew their dislike of each other was mutual.

  The black grillwork of the gate was in front of them. Lara paused while inserting the key into the padlock. It turned grudgingly, then finally clicked. Loosely grasping one of the iron bars, she started to swing the gate open. It unexpectedly didn't budge and her hand slipped free of the bar as her impetus carried her a stumbling step backward.

  A pair of large hands closed around her waist to steady Lara for the instant necessary to regain her balance. Then the firm support was removed and Rans MacQuade stepped around her. There was a protesting screech of the hinges before the gate allowed itself to be pulled open by him.

  "It needs offing," he said, swinging it experimentally a few times. "I'll send someone up in the morning to see to it."

  "Thank you," Lara accepted his offer with cool indifference.

  He stepped through the gateway, closing it behind him. "Good night, Mrs. Cochran." There was a faintly mocking inclination of his golden brown head.

  "Good night."

  While she snapped the lock securely closed, Lara watched the long, lazy strides that carried him into the cobwebby shadows of the pine trees. She paused, trying to analyze that moment when his large hands had nearly spanned her slender waist. She could still feel their warm imprint. His steadying touch had been automatic and impersonal.

  Her own reaction had been just as bland. She had felt nothing then, and now there was only the lingering impression of his grip. An absent smile quirked the corners of her mouth as Lara turned away from the gate.

  She must remember to mention the incident in her next letter to Angie. After their visit nearly a month ago, this provided proof of her assertion that she was indifferent to a man's touch. The warmth of his hands had neither aroused her nor repulsed her. Angie had not been convinced of Lara's indifference to a man's attention. This should help change her thinking.

  A breeze whispered through the pines, dancing into the courtyard to tease at the shawl around her head, Lara clutched the knitted cloth tighter around her throat and hurried toward the house before the night's chill penetrated her slight covering.

  Chapter Three

  THE BLAZE-FACED BAY snorted and tossed his head, sidestepping spiritedly amid the straight rows of pecan trees. The barren branches almost formed an arch above the horse and rider. Green, thick grass muffled the horse's high stepping strides.

  Lara soothingly stroked the silken curve of his neck before lifting the hand to her hair. The gallop had loosened a few red gold tendrils from the French pleat. She tucked them back in place.

  "There's nothing like a brisk gallop to chase away the tensions, is there, Pasha?" She laughed throatily in satisfaction as she patted the hunter's neck again. "And the weather is perfect. It feels like spring is here already, and it's only the end of February."

  The sky was a brilliant blue with not a cloud or jet trail in sight. The temperature, too, was that of a balmy spring morning. The ribbed, knit of her black turtleneck sweater was, ample coverage, even during the cooling gallop that had carried Lara deep into the pecan orchard.

  Reining the horse at a right angle, she turned him toward the distant fence and the connecting gate to the next field. Her gaze studied the outstretched branches. Although the dogwood trees growing wild in the pines had begun to show signs of budding, the pecan trees remained dormant. They generally waited until around the first official day of spring to begin budding. Yet always it was an event for Lara when the first shoot was seen.

  As she neared the adjoining field, the decreasing rows of trees enabled her to catch a glimpse of the fence. A telltale, patch of brown black contrasted with the green, rye grass in, this orchard, pasture land for the cattle, until the autumn harvest when the nuts began falling from the trees. The furrows of brown in the next field answered the question that Lara had been wondering about since she had started out.

  Touching the riding crop to the hunter's flanks, she urged him into a rocking canter. Plowing had started in the next orchard to prepare the field for the hay crop to be planted. All the orchards served dual purposes, first to grow pecans, and second as grazing land or cropland.

  Where there were freshly furrowed rows of dirt on Alexander land, Cato could not be far away. With a quick smile, Lara corrected the silent thought — Cato and his mules couldn't be faraway. It was one of the traditions that hadn't been cast aside. No matter how many tractors and modern farm machinery there were in the sheds, the plowing was always done by Cato and his mules.

  As a child Lara had not questioned the custom, spending many hours tagging along beside the tall, spare man as he walked behind his mules, always talking to them as if they could understand every word he said. Officially the mules were Alexander property. Unofficially they belonged to Cato. For sixty-seven of his eighty-two years, he had taken care of the mules and walked behind them as they plowed the fields.

  Despite his advanced years, his body was not encumbered by age. He could still walk as long and as far as he had when he was thirty. With a smile, Lara remembered that last fall Cato had planted a strawberry bed for his ninety-eight-year old mother, grumbling that the cranky old hen would probably live to see it bear fruit.

  Not until Lara was sixteen did she question the wisdom of letting Cato plow the fields when tractors would be so much faster. The occasion had been brought about by the discovery that the seemingly ageless man was in fact seventy-four. She had argued with her father that surely something else could be found for Cato to do. To this day, she could vividly recall her father's response.

  "Cato doesn't know anything else, pet," her father had explained patiently. "His mules are his life, and his work is his prides. After the loyalty he has shown us, surely we can return it by letting him keep his job for as long as he's capable of holding it."

  "But he's worked all these years. Why don't you give him a pension and let him retire? He's certainly earned that right, too," Lara had pointed out.

  "To take away Cato's mules and his pride?" He had shaken his head. "I might as well give him a gun to shoot himself with, because he wouldn't have anything else to live for."

  The white boards of the fence gate glistened in front of Lara. Without dismounting, she unlatched the gate and rode through closing it behind her. The bay's hooves ground deeply into the freshly turned soil.

  A frown creased Lara's forehead. It was not the jangle of harness she heard on the other side of the knoll, but the steady hum of a tractor motor. She couldn't believe it, and turned the bay hunter down one of the straight furrows; urging him into a slow canter with a click of her tongue and a touch of the riding crop.

  As she crested the small ridge, there was the tractor and plow moving steadily through the row of tree
s. She recognized the driver and called, meaning to find out why Cato wasn't there, but he couldn't hear her over the din of the motor.

  The uneven ground made the going too difficult for the bay and Lara reined him over to the unplowed section. When they had passed the tractor, she cut across halting the horse directly in its path and forcing the tractor to stop. The bay did not like the noisy machine and tossed its head in vigorous protest when Lara guided him alongside of it.

  "Where's Cato?" she shouted to the driver.

  The man cupped a hand to his ear, a curious frown on his face as his mouth formed the word "What?" Her mouth thinned into an exasperated line. Quickly she signaled to Johh Porter to cut the engine. It sputtered and died, the cessation of noise intensifying the peaceful silence of the orchard.

  "What's the trouble, Miss Lara?" An inquiring smile curved his mouth.

  "Where's Cato, John?" Lara repeated her earlier question. "Why are you doing the plowing instead of him?"

  "MacQuade's orders." The man shrugged, turning his head away from her to spit out his chaw of tobacco.

  "Didn't you explain to him that Cato has always done the plowing here?"

  "I tried." The dubious shake of the man's head indicated it hadn't made much difference. "But he didn't seem to care how things were done before he came."

  Temper flared and Lara controlled it with effort. "I will explain it to him," she said determinedly. In the meantime, John, you can drive the tractor back to the sheds. Cato will be doing the plowing here."

  The pangs of uncertainty flashed across the man's face. "MacQuade told me to plow the field," he argued hesitantly. "Your father made it very clear when MacQuade took over that he was the boss and none of us would be expected to take orders from anyone else, not even your father. It could mean my job, and my wife's going to have a baby in a couple of months. I can't risk MacQuade using me as an example to the others that he's in charge. You understand, don't you?"

  "Yes." The admission was clipped out with irritation while her mind raced to find an alternate solution to achieve the same ends. "Give me the ignition key, John." She breathed in deeply. "Tell MacQuade that I stopped you and took the key. He would hardly expect you to fight with the boss's daughter, to try to get it back. This way he'll see that I'm solely responsible and not blame you."

  "Well," he murmured uneasily, "if you think it will work."

  Lara dismounted as John Porter removed the key from the ignition and swung down from the tractor. Reluctantly he handed it to her.

  "MacQuade isn't going to be happy about this." He shook his head. "You know that?"

  "I can handle Mr. MacQuade," Lara asserted confidently.

  There was an upward flick of his eyebrows as if John Porter wasn't too sure that Lara knew what she was talking about. He glanced at the tractor and plow.

  "I suppose I might as well start back," he sighed.

  "I'll walk with you." Lara fell into step beside him, leading the horse by the reins. "I might as well find Mr. MacQuade and get this mess straightened out about Cato."

  The man offered no encouraging comment as they followed the brown red furrows toward the road fence. Reaching into his shirt pocket, he took out a pouch of chewing tobacco, put a pinch between his cheek and gum, then returned the pouch to his pocket.

  "Would he be at the sheds?" Her inquiry broke the uneasy silence.

  "At the sheds or checking one of the fields. They're plantin' some new seedlings in that acreage that was cleared last winter. He might be there," the man suggested.

  Lara pressed her lips tightly together and lapsed into silence. Just thinking how carelessly Rans MacQuade had cast aside one of the valued traditions of Alexander land made her blood run hot. She cautioned herself to deal with confrontation coolly and calmly, but it was going to be difficult not to allow her personal dislike of the man to get in the way. Nor was he the type to take kindly to being ordered around by a woman. To be successful she would have to be diplomatic.

  They were nearly at the fence when a pickup truck rolled into view on the graveled road, a cloud of dust following it. The pickup slowed, tires crunching on the gravel; and turned into the orchard entrance, stopping short of the gate.

  John Porter darted Lara a grim look. "You aren't going to have to go looking for MacQuade."

  Mentally Lara braced herself for the meeting, wishing she had been allowed a little more time to formulate what she was going to say. The truck door on the driver's side was opened, then slammed shut. Sunlight glinted on the golden highlights of Rans MacQuade's brown hair as he walked around the cab through the gate.

  His gaze flicked briefly to Lara then centered on John Porter. "Did the tractor break down?"

  In the outdoors he seemed taller and leaner and more rugged looking than Lara had remembered him being the few times she had seen him at the house. He was definitely a man that the workers would look up to with decided respect. She understood why John Porter was reluctant to deliberately disobey him—which didn't alter her decision at all.

  "Not exactly." John Porter shuffled nervously as he tried to answer the question put to him. He paused and spat a stream of yellow tobacco juice onto the plowed ground. "You see…"

  He glanced expectantly at Lara. The action brought a thoughtful narrowing of Rans MacQuade's brown eyes, but they didn't waver from the man's face.

  "I believe there's been a bit of a misunderstanding Mr. MacQuade," Lara inserted, coming to the man's rescue. At that point she was impaled by the hard, piercing gaze. Her fingers closed tightly around the tractor keys. "I can readily understand how it happened. You haven't been here long enough to be familiar with all of the ways we do things."

  "Has this something to do with the man Cato and his mules?" Rans inquired in an ominously low voice.

  "Yes." A stiff smile curved her mouth. "It is a tradition that he always plows Alexander ground. My father has stated many times that it is one that will continue for as long as Cato lives. To deprive him of his job would be the same thing as taking away his dignity and self-respect. It would hardly be the way to reward him after all his years of loyal service."

  Rans MacQuade breathed in deeply and glanced away, irritation in the compressed line of his mouth. "Where's the tractor?" The question was addressed to Porter.

  "About a third of the way down this row." The man gestured over his shoulder.

  "I want you to go back to the tractor and—" Rans began.

  "I haven't got the key," John interrupted and quickly avoided the sharp gaze that was directed at him.

  "John was reluctant to stop plowing since you had ordered him to do it," Lara explained evenly. "So I took the ignition key away from him."

  His jaw tightened as Rans MacQuade turned back to study her coldly. "May I have the key, Mrs. Cochran?"

  There was a flash of triumph in her green eyes. Lara concealed it with a sweep of her gold-tipped lashes. She hadn't expected him to give in so quickly. Admittedly the stressing of her father's wishes had probably resulted in her success. She extended the hand with the tractor key to him.

  "I knew once it was explained to you, you would understand, Mr. MacQuade," she offered graciously.

  Her comment brought a sardonic twist to the ruthless line of his mouth. He took the keys and turned to John, holding them out to him.

  "Here," Rans said shortly. "Enough time's been wasted. Get back on that tractor and get this orchard plowed."

  Like Lara, John stared at him in stunned disbelief. With a surge of white-hot anger, Lara realized her explanation had meant nothing. She had been a fool to think she could reason with anyone as arrogantly confident as Ransom MacQuade. She had let herself be tricked into returning the key.

  The riding crop hung from a strap around her wrist. During the instant when John was too surprised to reach for the keys, her fingers closed around the leather whip. Driven by her flaming temper, Lara struck out with the short whip, lashing it across the, back of the outstretched hand that held the keys.


  Immediately they dropped from his fingers, falling onto the plowed sod. A hissing curse accompanied the abrupt spin by Rans in her direction, the chiseled features harsh with anger, Lara's breath was coming in uneven spurts, but her expression was completely composed, with a barely challenging, lift of her chin.

  The air crackled with high-voltage tension. Her gaze slid to the angry red welt across the back of his hand, the fingers doubled to form a fist. She was absently aware of John glancing hesitantly from one to the other. Rans had not forgotten his presence, either.

  "I left the keys in the truck, John,"' The smoldering glare of his eyes didn't leave Lara's face. "Drive it back to the sheds and report to Clive."

  Lara did not make the mistake of interpreting his order as an admission that he was going to allow Cato to plow the fields. Rans was getting rid of John so he wouldn't witness the argument that was to come. Lara had no doubt that the gloves of politeness would come off when John left. Burning anger raged through her veins. She was in no way intimidated by him.

  John spat again on the ground, glancing at her out of the corner of his eyes. He was torn between two loyalties. He had known Lara for years and was reluctant to leave her alone with Rans MacQuade. At the same time, he didn't want to risk losing his job since the welfare of his growing family depended on the money he brought home.

  With an almost imperceptible nod of her head, Lara indicated that John should go. She was capable of fighting her own battles, even with an opponent as formidable as Rans MacQuade. Rans caught the exchange and his expression darkened as John walked toward the pickup truck parked at the gate.

  The bay horse snorted nervously. Reacting to the turbulent tension in the air, he tossed his head and tugged at the reins in Lara's hand. The heavy silence continued until the pickup truck door was opened and shut and the motor growled. Lara didn't give Rans an opportunity to take the initiative.

  "I don't believe you heard me correctly, Mr. MacQuade. Cato always does whatever plowing needs to be done on Alexander land. It is a longstanding tradition that not even you are going to stop."