This Calder Range Read online

  Lorna hesitated and finally accepted the risk of being rebuffed again. She didn’t have her mother’s insight into a man’s thinking, but it was something her mother had probably obtained after years of living with her father.

  When she entered the parlor, she saw Benteen standing next to the boxes of personal belongings that she and her mother had taken from his ranch. Judd Boston had given them permission to remove the personal articles from the house. They had kept them here for Benteen’s return.

  Lorna was struck by how old Benteen appeared. His sun-browned features looked haggard and drawn, showing an age that came from brutal experience rather than the accumulation of years. Even when the dirt and dust from the trail were washed away, it would still be there.

  Lorna felt dreadfully innocent and naive. How foolish she had been to think she knew the words that would comfort him, when Benteen had seen so much more than she had. What did she know about death and hardship? It had all happened on the periphery of her life.

  His dusty, lowcrowned hat was held at his side. The tight hold of his gloved fingers was curling the stained brim. He reached down to pick up the framed daguerreotype lying on top of the folded clothes and various other articles that had belonged to his father. Lorna crossed the room to stand slightly behind him. Her tenderly compassionate gaze wandered over the jacket, stretched tautly across the wide set of his shoulders. The air was almost electrified with his tension.

  “We tried to find you when your father died,” she told him, and was cut by his hard glance. “Mr. Boston sent out a couple of his men, but they weren’t able to locate you.”

  “I don’t imagine he tried too hard.” Benteen’s voice was stiffly dry as he continued to stare at the tintype.

  “Daddy said it would be hard to find anybody in that rough country,” Lorna murmured, and glanced at the picture of the woman in the frame, barely visible from her angle. “That’s your mother, isn’t it?” Lorna remembered one of his neighbors mentioning it. So many had come to the funeral and offered their sympathy that she didn’t recall which one. “She was very beautiful.”

  “Yes.” It was a clipped answer.

  In an effort to understand what Benteen was feeling, Lorna tried to put herself in his place, imagining what it would have been like to be raised without a mother, then losing the one parent that remained. She had been so loved by both her mother and father that she couldn’t imagine a life without them.

  “Your mother died when you were very young, didn’t she?” she commented, in the hope he might talk about his mother and eventually release some of the grief for his father bottled inside him.

  When Benteen swiveled to look at her, Lorna was shocked at the bitter hate in his dark eyes. “She isn’t dead.” His mouth curled over the words like a snarling animal. “She ran off with another man and left us.”

  “I didn’t know.” Lorna recoiled a little from this frightening side of him, so utterly ruthless and unforgiving.

  That look was finally directed at the daguerreotype. “Pa kept waiting for her to come back, but she never did.” The pitch of his voice was absolutely flat, containing no emotion. “He never heard from her once in all these years, but he waited anyway.” There was a slight tremble in the gloved hand holding the picture. It was in his low voice, too, when Benteen spoke again—a tremble of anger. “He doesn’t have to wait anymore.”

  A small fire was burning in the fireplace to take the nip out of the springtime air. With a sudden turn, Benteen hurled the daguerreotype and carved wood frame into the fireplace. Glass splintered and broke as it crashed against the andirons holding the smoldering embers of a burning log. Lorna flinched in shock, and recovered immediately to grab for the iron poker and rescue the picture before it caught fire.

  The instant Benteen recognized her intention, his hard fingers circled her wrist in a painful grip. “Let it burn, Lorna.”

  “No.” Her eyes were smarting with tears, not understanding him at all. For the first time in her life, she defied male authority. “I’m not going to let you burn your mother’s picture, regardless of what she did.”

  “It’s a picture of my mother,” he snapped. “I’ll say what happens to it.”

  “No, you won’t.” She switched the poker to her other hand and raked the wooden frame away from the tiny flames licking at it. “It’s a picture of the grandmother of our children. We’re going to keep it.”

  Lorna was trembling at the anger boiling around her. Any second she expected Benteen to strike her, the feeling of imminent violence was so intense. Her hand was shaking badly, but she continued her frantic effort to save the picture.

  His grip had nearly cut off the circulation in her fingers when he suddenly let go of her wrist. “She deserves to burn in hell!” He rasped the condemnation. “Keep it if you want, but I don’t want to ever see it again!”

  Her knees gave out as his long strides carried him away from the fireplace. Lorna knelt weakly on the hearth, the daguerreotype saved. The front door banged shut behind him as he strode out of the house.

  “What happened?”

  Lorna glanced over her shoulder. Her mother was poised just inside the parlor, concern in her expression. Unaware of changing loyalties within her, Lorna didn’t answer the question. The angry and bitter feelings Benteen had revealed to her were something private that shouldn’t be told, not even to her mother.

  Laying the poker aside, she turned back to the smoldering fire and gingerly picked the heated wooden frame out of the gray ashes. Part of the frame was charred on the edges, and a corner of the daguerreotype was scorched a yellow-brown. The dark-eyed blond woman in the picture smiled back at Lorna, unscathed by the flame. Lorna blew away the fine dusting of ash and stood up, no longer weak.

  “Would you put this in my little chest?” She handed the framed picture to her mother without answering her question. “I’m going to keep it for Benteen.”

  “Yes, I’ll put it away for you.” She frowned at the burn marks, her questioning glance sweeping Lorna’s face. A sadness drifted across her expression as Clara Pearce noticed the new trace of maturity in her daughter’s eyes. She was growing up—and growing away. There was only that one glimpse before Lorna turned away to pick up her heavy shawl from the sofa arm.

  “I’m going after Benteen,” she said, and walked to the door.

  As Lorna came out of the house, she saw Benteen at the hitching post, untying his horse’s reins. She pulled the wool shawl more snugly around her shoulders and hurried down the steps to the picket gate.

  Except for one glance when she reached the gate, Benteen took no notice of her. She knew he’d mount and ride away if she didn’t stop him. With the freshness of his father’s death on his mind, she didn’t want them to part on a quarreling note.

  “Would you help me hitch Dandy to the buggy, Benteen?” she asked to break the silence between them. “I’d like to go with you to the cemetery and show you where we buried your father.”

  When he finally looked at her, there wasn’t any trace of the anger he had directed at her earlier. Lorna breathed easier. But his expression remained hardened, shutting in his feelings so they couldn’t be observed.

  “Yes.” He agreed to harness the bay gelding for her.

  Leading his horse, Benteen walked around the picket fence enclosing the front yard of the house and headed for the rear of the dwelling, where a small shed housed the Pearces’ buggy and a horse stall. Lorna followed, cutting through the yard.

  A silence flowed between them. While it wasn’t an easy one, it wasn’t uncomfortable either. Lorna watched quietly as Benteen tied the buggy horse in its stall and began buckling on the harness. Activity seemed to provide a release for some of his simmering tension. There was less suppressed violence in his movements as they became smoother, more natural.

  With the harness in place, Benteen backed the gelding between the buggy shafts and hooked the traces. He turned to help Lorna into the spring seat, treating her with a measure
of aloofness. She made room for him on the seat, hoping he would ride with her, but he passed her the buggy reins and mounted his horse.

  Benteen rode alongside the buggy, escorting her along the town’s rough streets to the small cemetery. Dismounting, he tied his horse to the back of the buggy and came forward to lift her to the ground.

  “His grave is under that big oak,” she pointed. “I hope that is all right.”

  “Yes.” His tight-lipped reply revealed nothing.

  There was an instant when Lorna thought Benteen was going to reject her silent wish to accompany him to the grave site. Then his arm curved behind her, his gloved hand flattening itself near the base of her spine. Together they walked along the well-trodden path through the cemetery, past wooden markers and headstones, to the large oak tree dominating the area.

  Winter had stripped the leaves from the tree, exposing its symmetrical skeleton of spreading branches and limbs. There was only a hint of green buds. A breeze whispered through the scattered piles of fallen leaves, a lonely sound made poignant by the simple wooden cross standing at the head of the elongated mound of earth. Its dark shape stood out sharply against the mixture of winter-brown grass and new green sprouts pushing up around it.

  When they reached the grave, his guiding hand fell away from her. Out of the corner of her eye, Lorna saw him take off his hat and hold it in front of him with both hands. The breeze ruffled the ends of his dark hair as he stared at the cross. The lettering read simply: “Seth Calder. RIP.”

  “We didn’t know your father’s birthdate,” she explained quietly. “We thought you could add whatever you liked to the marker when you came back.”

  “That’s fine.”

  “A large number of your father’s friends and neighbors came to the funeral.” Lorna thought he’d like to know that.

  “I’m glad he never lived to see Boston take possession of his land.” A muscle flexed in his jaw.

  “Mr. Boston felt very badly about the position his bank was forced to take.” Lorna wasn’t sure why she felt the need to defend the banker’s action.

  His glance pierced her. “Did Boston come to the funeral?”

  “No, but he came by our house that evening to offer his condolences,” she explained. “Mr. Boston was upset by the possibility that the foreclosure proceedings precipitated your father’s death.”

  “I’ll bet he was upset.” His voice was dry with sarcasm.

  A frown gathered in her expression. “You surely don’t blame him for what happened? I’m sure it was a decision that was forced on him. And I know how much it bothers my father when he has to refuse a longtime customer credit because of a past-due account.” Lorna glanced away, vaguely irritated by his attitude. “I’m sure he waited as long as he could.”

  “Are you?” Benteen murmured.

  “Yes, and I don’t see why you’re acting like this,” she admitted finally. “He and your father were neighbors, and you worked for him several years. I’m sure he found himself in a very awkward position, as a banker.”

  “Boston has wanted the Cee Bar’s graze and water for years. He’s been slowly squeezing my father out all this time. Now he’s got what he wanted all along. The Cee Bar is his.” Benteen pushed his hat onto his head, pulling it down low in front and back. “I’ve known he wanted it for years, so did Pa. Boston is only pretending to be upset so he’ll look good in the town’s eyes. Don’t believe him.”

  Taking her by the elbow, Benteen turned her away from the grave and started back toward the buggy. He sounded so certain about the banker’s motives that Lorna wondered if she hadn’t been too ready to believe the best. She was used to trusting people.

  “Have you been to the ranch since you got back?” She tried to watch him and where she was walking at the same time.

  “Yes.” His faint smile had an unpleasant look to it. “Judd Boston had a reception committee waiting for me.”

  “He did?” She was confused by his choice of words.

  “A man and a rifle were there to make sure I didn’t trespass for long,” Benton explained. When they reached the buggy, he paused to glance back at the graveyard. “The last reason I had for staying in Texas is buried there. It’s the last time a Calder is going to be put in Texas dirt.”

  There was something morbid about his vow, and it frightened Lorna. This was a side of him that she didn’t know or understand. She wound her arms around him and hugged him close, pressing her cheek against his jacket to hide her face. “Don’t talk like that, Benteen,” she murmured. Now she was the one who needed to be comforted.

  His hands took a firm hold of her upper arms to force her away from his chest. Lorna kept her hands around his middle and her gaze lowered. His hands moved to her neck and into her long hair at the sides, forcing her head up.

  “How soon can the wedding be arranged?” he asked with a quiet urgency. “I want us to leave as soon as I’ve got the supplies and horses we’ll be needing for the drive.”

  They had waited so long that Lorna didn’t understand why it all had to be rushed now. She had tried not to think about leaving the secure world she’d always known. The leather gloves were rough against the delicate skin of her cheeks.

  “Why are you so anxious to go?” she whispered.

  “You are the only good thing I’ve ever found in Texas,” Benteen murmured. Just for a minute, the mask slipped to reveal the pain and bitterness in his expression.

  Then his dark eyes seemed to absorb her whole into his system. She was only half-conscious of being slowly pulled into his arms. He lowered his mouth to her lips and took them with a rough force. She curled her arms around his lean waist, warmed by his enveloping body heat.

  Benteen could feel the pulsing life in the soft female form pressed against him. Surrounded by all this death, he needed the renewal her body offered. He fed on her lips, eating them with a hunger that forced them apart. His hard tongue probed the space he’d created.

  Lorna stiffened at its invasion. The sensation was new, and vaguely thrilling. She relaxed a little, sensing that it gave him pleasure, that it filled a need he had at this moment. Ultimately, that was her objective in the embrace.

  There was an instinctive reciprocation of the intimacy. With it came a gradual change in her desires, into something more self-centered. There was less giving and more taking as inner needs began to dictate her wants. As her mouth mated with his, she was beginning to feel hot all over, burning with a fire she didn’t know how to extinguish.

  The hardness of his leanly muscled body was beginning to assert its pressure on her, trapping her against the unyielding boards of the buggy. The long skirt of her dress was whipped around his legs by the wind. There was an insistence about the thrusting angle of his hips that she didn’t understand. His hands were under her shawl, pressing her spine to arch more completely against him. Lorna was on tiptoe, straining to achieve the closeness he was demanding, and feeling a raw frustration when she failed.

  His arms relaxed their hold. She was momentarily confused, not wanting the embrace to end. A hand slid along the side of her rib cage. She pushed against its touch, thinking Benteen was going to force her out of his arms. Instead, his hand moved to cover her breast, taking full possession of its ripe fullness, straining against the material of her dress.

  An inferno of emotions seemed to erupt inside her. For a split second she yielded to them, until she recognized the sinful lust that was possessing her. She tried to pull free of his arms, but there was no place to go. The buggy was behind her, pushing her into his male wall.

  There didn’t seem to be any strength in her fingers when she tried to push his hand away from her breast. She was breathing hard, as if she’d run some great distance. Her cheeks were scarlet with shame at her loose behavior. Lifting her head, Lorna searched his face in alarm, afraid he would be shocked that she had practically invited him to treat her like this—like one of those soiled doves she’d seen around the saloons. But the ache she saw in his eye
s almost made her wish she hadn’t stopped him.

  Benteen took a half-step back so the lower half of his body no longer pinned her against the buggy. His gaze dropped to the hand on her breast, and he slowly brought it down.

  “I shouldn’t have let you do that,” Lorna whispered anxiously. “I don’t know what got into me. You’re probably thinking—”

  “—that I want to bury myself in you,” Benteen finished the sentence for her, the sexual significance of his remark lost on her innocence. He seemed to realize it, as one side of his mouth became twisted in a rueful smile. “We’d better get married damned soon, because I need you, Lorna.”

  “I need you too,” she murmured, but she was speaking emotionally.

  “The things you do to me, woman.” The cryptic phrase was accompanied by a slight shake of his head. “I’ll be a solid stone by our wedding night.”

  A shudder trembled through her at the greater intimacies that night would bring, and her possible reactions. The shawl had fallen down around her arms. Benteen reached to gently pull it up around her shoulders.

  “It’s getting cool. We’d better get you home before you catch a chill.”

  “Will you have dinner with us tonight?” she asked, not wanting him to leave her now that he had returned.

  “I need to get back and check on the herd,” he refused gently, then promised, “I’ll be in town tomorrow. I’ll see you then.”

  He assisted her into the buggy. This time, he climbed onto the seat beside her, taking the reins and driving the horse to the Pearce house.

  6

  On a trail drive the cook was second in importance only to the trail boss. Most of the drovers considered him to be more important, especially if he knew how to cook. Besides fixing the meals and keeping a pot of hot, strong coffee going all the time, he doctored men and horses, was entrusted with personal belongings and money, pulled teeth on occasion, and trimmed hair. The cook could make life pleasant on the drive or turn it into sheer hell.