Miss Murray on the Cattle Trail Read online

  “Good morning!” she sang.

  “Mornin’,” he growled. “Got a lot of miles to cover today. Sure hope you can ride.”

  “Why, certainly I can ride.” She rested her hands on her shiny new belt buckle.

  “Yeah? Where’ve you ridden?”

  “In the city park,” she said, her voice frosty. “On the bridle path.”

  Zach resisted a snort, looked her up and down and unhooked his thumbs. “Those your ridin’ boots?”

  She glanced down at the stylish, neatly laced leather boots. “Yes. What’s wrong with them? I bought them in Chicago and—”

  “They won’t work.”

  She propped her hands on her hips and peered more closely at her feet. “Well, if it’s not too much trouble, Mister Knows Everything, would you mind telling me what’s wrong with them?”

  He spit off to one side. “You won’t last half an hour in those fancy city leathers. Brand new and probably too tight. Go ask Alice for a pair of her old riding boots.”

  For a moment, Miss Newspaper Reporter looked like she was going to argue, but he stared her down. Finally, she pivoted, stomped back up the porch steps and slammed through the front door.

  Hell’s bells, she was a greenhorn. A ladyfied greenhorn, and one with a mouth on her. Charlie had just used up his last favor.

  When Miss Fancy-Pants reappeared, she wore a pair of Alice’s well-worn riding boots and a sour look. Zach expelled a long breath and tipped his head toward the corral.

  “Saddle up.”

  “Oh, yes, sir, Mister Trail Boss.”

  His jaw tightened. Gonna be a damn long day.

  *

  Alex snapped open her leather-bound notebook and jotted half a line before the chuck wagon rolled into position at the head of the muddle of cows and horses and riders. Her horse jolted forward. She stuffed her pencil in her shirt pocket and grabbed the reins, but the horse danced a few paces to the left before it settled down. She’d never before ridden anything but old, gentle, city-trained mares, and this horse was neither old nor gentle. Or a mare, she’d been told. In fact, she’d never been this close to a horse that had been…well, gelded.

  At least forty horses milled around in a whinnying clump, and she counted seven, no, eight scruffy-looking cowboys, not including the horse wrangler and His Highness the Trail Boss.

  And hundreds and hundreds of cows. Steers, Uncle Charlie said. Surely they couldn’t all be steers, because some of them had calves tagging along behind.

  She flexed her toes in Aunt Alice’s boots. Her aunt had said they were well broken in, but they still felt awfully tight. She was glad she was riding and not walking the four hundred miles that stretched ahead of her.

  The chuck wagon, a bulky-looking top-heavy box on wheels, rattled and clanked its way on ahead of the roiling mass of animals and men on horseback. She watched Roberto, the driver, stash his whip under the bench, put two fingers to his lips and give a sharp whistle. Right away she decided she liked the white-haired old man. The wagon lumbered off down the trail, drawn by two horses.

  Bellowing cattle, yipping men on horseback and the thunder of horses’ hooves added to the hubbub. It was deafening. She clapped both hands over her ears and lost control of her mount. A rider swung in close, grabbed her reins and settled the horse. Juan, Roberto’s soft-spoken nephew. He laid the leather straps in her gloved hand, touched his hat brim and reined his horse away.

  Dust rose in thick clouds. She had just kneed her horse off to one side when Juan dropped back and shouted something. She couldn’t hear over the noise, so she tried to read his lips. “Señorita.” He mouthed something else, but she had no idea what it was.

  She shook her head. He pointed at the bandanna covering his mouth and nose. Oh! Of course. But she didn’t have a bandanna. Oh, well. She smiled at Juan, lifted her chin, and spurred her mount forward.

  She was on her way!

  It was all fascinating. So this was how people in places like Philadelphia and New York got their meat, a thousand bawling cows lumbering after one old seasoned bull called a “bell steer” because of the clanging bell hung around its neck. They would all end in some rough, dirty railroad town in Nevada with the Indian-sounding name of Winnemucca, where the cowboys would load them up in cattle cars that would end up two thousand miles farther east in slaughterhouses in Chicago.

  Just imagine! Right before her eyes were thousands and thousands of thick juicy steaks on the hoof. People back East would be avid for these sights and sounds. She patted the notepad and pencil in her breast pocket. She knew her readers would gobble up each delicious detail of this adventure.

  *

  They were three hours out, and whenever he could manage it, Zach pried his eyes off the herd and glanced back at Miss Murray. She lagged way behind, a good forty yards in back of Skip, who was riding drag, and she was fighting through thick clouds of dust. She’d pulled her wide-brimmed black hat down so far it almost covered her ears, but hell, she couldn’t see what was three feet ahead of her.

  He winced in spite of himself. Anybody joining a drive for the first time always rode drag behind the herd, the dustiest position there was. She wasn’t complaining. Yet. He knew she must be hot and more miserable than she’d ever been in her pampered little life, and a small part of him felt just a tad sorry for her. An even larger part was making bets on how long she’d last before she’d turn tail for the Rocking K and a hot bath.

  Maybe he should… Nah. Let her suffer. Teach her a lesson.

  Juan trotted up on his sorrel and signaled that he wanted to talk.

  “What’s up?” Zach yelled over the lowing steers.

  “The señorita, she has no…” he swept a thumb and forefinger across his face “…Panuelo.”

  Zach nodded, and the slim kid galloped off. So she’d forgotten her bandanna, had she? Where’d she think she was goin’, to a party?

  “C’mon, Dancer. Let’s go.” He loped up to the point riders, and when Curly and the new hand, Cassidy, gave him a thumbs-up, he dropped back to the drag position. The air was so thick he could almost chew it.

  Skip rode with his chin tucked into his chest, and when Zach fell in beside him, the lanky cowhand didn’t look up.

  “Go change with Curly,” Zach shouted. Skip touched two fingers to his hat and thundered off to the head of the herd. In a few minutes, Curly appeared to ride drag.

  “Thanks, boss,” he yelled. “Gettin’ bored up front.”

  Zach laughed. Nothing much got the tubby, blond cowhand down, not even riding drag on a scorching, windless day. Even the cottonwood trees were drooping.

  He peered ahead to locate Miss Murray. Crazy name, Alexandra. Like some English queen or something. Yep, there she was, off to the side, trailing the swing riders, Juan and Jase, and losing ground.

  She wasn’t moving fast enough to keep up, he noted. Pretty soon she’d be eating even more dust back here with Curly, and then she’d drop farther and farther behind, and that would slow down the entire outfit. He clenched his jaw and spurred forward.

  Chapter Three

  Alex scrunched her eyes shut and prayed the horse would keep moving forward alongside the herd even if she wasn’t looking. After a minute she cracked open one eyelid. Puffy white clouds floated in the unbelievably blue sky over her head—faces, fantastical cats, even castles—and in the distance rose snow-capped mountains. Oh, how cool they looked!

  Her mouth was crunchy with grit and dust, and she could scarcely draw the filthy air in through her nostrils. Tears streamed down her cheeks. She closed her eyes again.

  Aunt Alice had been right. It had taken her only half a day on horseback to realize that a girl raised in the city should never, never, never go on a cattle drive. She had never been so tired, so filthy, so miserable in her entire life. And this is only the first day.

  A glimmer of understanding about her mother penetrated her roiling thoughts. Mama had always refused to go outdoors unless it was to tea at the Savoy Hotel. Her mother liked to be warm and clean and dressed in the latest fashion, and she had always arranged her life for the maximum comfort with a minimum effort. Maybe Mama had known something Alex didn’t.

  Something jostled her, and she snapped her lids open. Zach Strickland’s black horse was beside her mount. He tipped his head to indicate she should pull off to the side, then reined in and reached over to grasp her horse’s bridle.

  She ran her tongue over her gritty teeth and opened her mouth. “Is something wrong?”

  “Maybe.” He gave her a look and quickly glanced away, then poured water from his canteen over a blue bandanna and pressed it into her hand. “Tie this over your nose and mouth. Keeps out the dust.” He kicked his horse and trotted off.

  “Thank you,” she called after him, but he gave no sign he’d heard. Hurriedly, she tied on the wet bandanna and drew in a mercifully grit-free breath. Oh, no. He would surely have noticed her tear-streaked face. Darn him! She hated it when she appeared weak and wishy-washy.

  Like her mother.

  With a groan she snatched up the reins and urged her mount forward. She hated Zach Strickland. Anyone who would revel in her distress was no gentleman.

  But he wasn’t reveling. Actually, he had done her a kindness. It was a civilized gesture, she acknowledged. Well, she’d thanked him, hadn’t she? That was all the good manners she could summon up on this awful, scorching afternoon.

  Oh, Aunt Alice, what have I done?

  How many more hours were there before she could climb down off this animal and rest her aching thighs? And her bottom. She squinted up at the sun. Almost straight overhead, which must mean it was nearly noon. Did that mean lunch? She could endure anything if there was a meal at the end. She kicked her heels into the horse’s flanks and jolted forward over an expanse of tiny purple flowers.

  But lunchtime came and went, and still the cowhands prodded the bellowing animals forward. She had long since gulped down the last of the lukewarm contents of her canteen, and her growling stomach didn’t let her forget for a single sunbaked minute that she was hungry. Desperately so. Right now she’d eat anything, a handful of cracker crumbs, a morsel of desiccated cheese, even a mouthful of the soft leather glove gripping her reins.

  This was misery, all right. Aunt Alice hadn’t varnished the truth one bit. She thought longingly of the wide, shaded front porch at the Rocking K ranch house, then determinedly shook her thoughts back to reality. There must be shade ahead somewhere; tall trees with blue-green needles bordered their route, and underneath them she glimpsed a mossy green carpet and some sort of green, grassy plant no more than six inches high.

  But there was no shade out here. Apparently there was to be no noon meal, either. She bit her lip. The bandanna helped some, but underneath it the hot air felt as if it were suffocating her. At least it kept out the gnats swarming around her head.

  Then out of the dust emerged a sweat-streaked sorrel, and Juan, the young boy, was smiling at her.

  He reined in close and thrust a hard biscuit into her hand. “Eat!”

  “Thank you!” Oh, no, that was wrong, he was Mexican, wasn’t he? “Gracias!”

  He flashed her a grin and galloped off through the dust. Why hadn’t she thought to bring a biscuit, or an apple, or something?

  Her aunt had suggested packing a clean shirt and an extra pair of underdrawers in the drawstring canvas bag rolled up behind her saddle. She couldn’t blame her for forgetting to mention biscuits.

  They didn’t stop until late afternoon, and by then Alex’s throat was so parched she couldn’t even spit. Ahead of her stretched lush green grass and a stand of leafy willow trees and…surely she was beginning to hallucinate…the chuck wagon, parked next to a burbling stream.

  She blinked hard. She must be dreaming.

  She edged her mount close to the rear wagon wheel and dismounted. The instant her boots touched the ground her knees buckled. She grabbed the saddle and hung on.

  “Señorita,” Roberto said at her shoulder. “You must put horse in corral, not dismount next to cook wagon.”

  She groaned. “I can’t let go, Roberto. I can’t walk.”

  Carefully he pried her fingers off the saddle, grasped her around the waist and settled her on the ground with her back propped against the wheel. “Cherry!” he shouted to the wrangler. “Come get the señorita’s horse.”

  Alex leaned forward and dropped her aching head onto her bent knees. Footsteps approached, and the next minute her saddle plopped down beside her and she heard the horse’s hooves clop away.

  “Thank you!” she called after whoever had taken her mount.

  “Ride too long today,” Roberto observed. She nodded, her forehead pressed against her jeans.

  “Be plenty sore mañana. I go get boss.”

  “No!” She jerked her head up. “Don’t get him.” She didn’t want to appear weak in front of Mister I-Told-You-So Strickland.

  Roberto stood surveying her, his hands propped at his waist. A stained homespun apron covered his bulky form. “I think yes, señorita. You hurt much, no?”

  She sighed. “Yes, Roberto. Much. Very much.”

  “Ay de mi,” the old man murmured. He moved away and Alex concentrated on straightening one leg, then the other. She tried three times before she gave up.

  Then Trail Boss Zach Strickland was standing before her, his long legs spread wide and a stony hardness in his green eyes that made her shudder. He was not smiling. “Sore, huh?”

  She clamped her teeth together and nodded.

  “Not surprised,” he said. “We covered ten miles today.”

  “Ten miles!” Ten whole miles? In her entire life she hadn’t ridden more than two miles, and that was along a shaded bridle path.

  “Do you always ride this many miles in a single day?”

  He shook his head, the dark hair streaked with gray dust. “Nope. Usually ride twelve to fifteen miles each day, but today bein’ our first day out, the cattle need some trail learning. And you, bein’ a tenderfoot, need some trail learning, too. We’ll ride more miles tomorrow.”

  “Where did all these cows come from? Surely Uncle Charlie’s ranch is not big enough for—”

  “Huh! Charlie’s ranch is plenty big, plus we picked up some steers from neighboring ranches.” He leaned forward. “Don’t call ’m ‘cows’ on a trail drive unless you wanna get laughed at.” He shot her a hard look. “But as for where they came from, Miss City Girl, cows come from other cows. And a bull, of course.”

  “I see.” How could she ever explain about cows and bulls in a city newspaper?

  “Got any more dumb questions, Dusty?”

  Dusty? She must look a frightful mess for him to call her that. She wiped her sweaty, gritty hands on her shirtfront. “No, no more questions. But…but I, um, I find that I…I cannot walk,” she confessed.

  “Not surprised,” he said again. “Well, let’s get it done.” He reached down, grasped her under the arms and heaved her to her feet.

  “Ouch-ouch-ouch!”

  “Yeah,” he said, his voice dry. “Come on.” He swung her aching body up into his arms and strode away from the chuck wagon and past the roped-off horse corral. When he came to the stream, he paced up and down the bank and suddenly halted, stepped forward and dropped her, bottom first, into the cold water.

  “What are you doing?” she screeched. She tried to scramble to the bank, but he laid one hand on her shoulder and pressed down. “Stay there,” he ordered. “Cold water will help. I’ll be back in thirty minutes.”

  She had no choice. She could barely move.

  Chapter Four

  Zach tramped away from the stream where he’d dumped Miss Murray, or Dusty, as he now thought of her, and halted at the chuck wagon. “Save her some supper, Roberto.”

  “Si, boss. But she will not be much hungry.”

  “She’ll eat.” He left the aging cook chuckling over his pot of beans and settled himself at the campfire next to Juan.

  The young man leaned toward him. “The señorita, she is okay?”

  “She is okay, yes. Mad, but okay.”

  “Madre mia. She will not be smile tomorrow.”

  “Not much,” Zach agreed. Maybe not at all. He kinda felt sorry for her, but kinda not sorry at the same time. Damn Charlie for insisting she come along on this drive. It was no place for a woman. A fancy-assed, citified, back-East newspaper reporter woman was about as welcome as a swarm of locusts.

  The clang of a steel triangle announced supper, and the hands around the campfire stampeded to the chuck wagon and lined up with tin plates in their hands. Roberto slapped thick slices of beef onto them, ladled on beans and topped the pile with his special warm tortillas.

  Zach brought up the rear of the line, ate leisurely and mentally calculated when Dusty’s half hour would be up.

  “Hey, boss,” someone called. “Where’s our newspaper lady?”

  Zach laid down his fork and shoved to his feet. “Comin’ right up.”

  *

  Footsteps crunched over the sandy stream bank, and Alex clenched her fists as tall, rangy Zach Strickland came toward her.

  “I want you to get me out of here!” she sputtered. “Right now!”

  “Yes, ma’am!” He splashed into the water, grabbed her shoulders and jerked her upright.

  “Ow! Ow, that hurts!”

  “Roberto’s got some liniment in one of his secret cubbyholes. Might help some.”

  “Oh, yes, please.”

  He swung her upright and half dragged, half walked her onto dry ground. “Not so fast,” she pleaded.

  He propped her against a thick pine trunk and stood surveying her. “Look, Dusty, you shouldn’t be out here with us. A cattle drive is rough, even on a seasoned cowhand. For a greenhorn it’s suicidal.”

  She said nothing, just stared at the trail boss she was coming to detest. He had overlong black hair that brushed the tips of his ears and eyes the color of moss. Right now they were narrowed at her.

  “Tomorrow you’re going back to the Rocking K,” he announced. “I’ll send Curly with you, and he can catch up with us before we hit the river. Right now, though, supper’s on, and you don’t want to miss Roberto’s beans and tortillas.”