Capture the Sun (Cheyenne Series) Read online

  “Ya figgerin' ta throw his money in his face when he offers yew a chunk ta ride off in the sunset.” It was not offered as speculation but as a bald statement.

  “You know me pretty well, old friend...”

  * * * *

  Carrie had spent the morning gleaning as much information as she could from Feliz, the repository of all Sinclair family information. Noah had been out on his land since daybreak, and Carrie did not see him until the midday meal. He was preoccupied and paid little attention to her, eating quickly and heading back to the corral.

  Carrie tried to bring up the problem of Mrs. Thorndyke's rudeness and independence, but was unable to get more than a perfunctory and exasperated, “She's run the house perfectly for over sixteen years. I won't disturb things that work well.”

  In other words, Carrie concluded disconsolately, she could wander around, a stranger in her own house, or take charge of it without Noah's support. Pondering that, she conceded that she would at least get some help from her husband with her other obvious problem: she could not ride a horse.

  Noah had been horrified when Carrie told him she had never been on horseback in her life, that in an urban area like St. Louis, horseback riding was not a popular diversion for most young ladies. Noah immediately took charge in characteristic fashion by announcing he would select her a gentle mount and have it outfitted with a sidesaddle. She was to report to Frank Lowery for her first lesson on the morrow.

  Nervously, Carrie did as instructed, dressing in a simple riding habit she had bought as part of her trousseau. It had been a request of Noah's and she had honored it without confessing that she did not ride. She smoothed the brown skirt and decided to brave the corral with no more procrastination. Anything larger than a sheepdog terrified her. Pray God whoever Frank selected to teach her would have the patience of Job!

  As she approached the corral, Carrie sighted Frank's snowy hair easily because he stood nearly a head taller than any of the other hands. He was surrounded by men taking morning job assignments and then moving off in groups of twos and threes to saddle their mounts and set to work. Patiently she waited until he was finished discharging his responsibilities. She was uncomfortable with the curious and occasionally leering stares of the motley assortment of men who passed by her. Some tipped their hats in deference, some blushed and looked down at their boots, and a few eyed her far too boldly for her comfort.

  Finally, as the press thinned, Carrie caught Frank's eye. He flashed that toothy smile and loped toward her. “Right early fer ya ta be up, ma'am. What kin I do fer ya?”

  Carrie was taken aback. “Didn't Noah ask you to find someone to go riding with me? I—I don't know how to say this to a Texan, but I never rode a horse before, and I'm under orders to learn.” She gave an uncertain smile and he

  returned it broadly.

  “I do apologize, ma'am, but Noah musta plumb fergot. Ya see, soon's he got down here, word come ‘bout some stock bein' stole down by th' Mizpah fork. I reckon he had some fierce worries. Fact is, soon's I post the day's work, I—”

  A drawling voice cut in, “Know yer right pushed fer time, Frank. Be real proud ta show th' missus th' ropes. Yew know no one's better’n a Texan ta teach a tenderfoot ta ride.” Kyle Hunnicut's bandy-legged gait carried him around the corral to stare eyè to eye with Carrie. He was barely taller than she, despite his high-heeled riding boots.

  A thick thatch of frizzy reddish hair stuck out from beneath a wide-brimmed, battered hat and an equally unruly patch of freckles was liberally spread across his face. A nose, long ago displaced in a Texas bar fight, fell sharply to the left side of his cheek while a strong set of teeth, yellowed by chewing tobacco, flashed her a warm grin. He could have been as young as thirty or as old as forty-five. It was that kind of a face.

  Frank laughed good-naturedly and spoke up. “Mrs. Sinclair, meet Kyle Hunnicut. This here rascal's th' best stock detective north o' th' Platte, ma'am, an’ I reckon a fair rider, too.”

  Carrie nodded, returning the greeting of the wiry little man who wore a deadly Colt strapped to his hip as naturally as had his friend Hawk. “I'd be grateful, Mr. Hunnicut, for any pointers you could give me. I'm quite a novice, I'm afraid.”

  The crooked grin again. “Nothin’ ta it, ma'am.” Kyle patiently saddled a small mare for Carrie, then helped her into the sidesaddle. Once up on the horse, the ground looked far down, and she immediately transmitted her nervousness to the animal, causing her to skitter. After a few minutes of patient instruction and reassurance by Kyle, they set out.

  “You're a ‘stock detective,’ Mr. Lowery said. What does that mean?” Carrie still felt as though she was in a foreign country.

  Kyle grinned and began to roll a cigarette as he explained. “Wall, ma'am, thet's really à fancy name fer a good tracker who doubles as a hired gun. Fact is, I kin foller most any stolen cow's trail an’ deal with th' varmints thet took ‘em.”

  “Is there much theft around here? I thought my husband was so powerful that no one would dare steal from him.” Carrie was taken aback at his casual reference to violence, but tried not to show it.

  “Fact is true, Noah Sinclair's got him th' biggest spread in eastern Montana, but thieves is a peculiar lot. They purely don't care. Thet's why Noah kin use us fer now.”

  “Us? You mean you and Hawk, don't you?” For some inexplicable reason Carrie found herself bringing up his name when she knew she shouldn't.

  He nodded in agreement and corrected the position of her hand on the tightened rein.

  Here I am out in the middle of nowhere, calmly riding around with a hired gunman, she thought in disbelief, making yet another resolution to adapt, no matter what.

  As if sensing her unease, Kyle said, “Yep, Longlegs 'n' me, we go back a piece. He run off from school 'n' come ta th' Nations lookin' fer some way ta survive. I cud see he's a nat'ral with a sidearm. Sorta quiet an’ moved real quick. Guess th' Injun blood gave him thet.”

  “So you trained him,” Carrie supplied, intrigued despite herself.

  “Yes'm, I did thet. Never had me a breed fer a pardner afore. Ya might say he trained me in a way, too.” He lapsed into silence, remembering.

  “Why did you offer to teach me to ride, Mr. Hunnicut?” He was Hawk's friend. Why was he being kind to her?

  “I'd be obliged if’n ya'd call me Kyle ma'am. Onliest ones whut calls me ‘Mr. Hunnicut’ 'er fellers in bars tryin' ta cadge a drink off'n me.”

  Carrie laughed. “All right, Kyle.” She waited for him to answer her question.

  He considered for a minute, then said, “It seems Hawk's got one idee about yew, 'n' Frank's got another. Figgered I'd see fer myself.”

  “Well, Kyle, how do you vote?” Carrie was abashed at his forthrightness and decided to be equally bold.

  “I ain't rightly decided yet. Got ta think on it fer a spell. I'll let yew know.” He grinned toothily.

  Carrie was sure this strangely honest ruffian would do just that and surprised herself by hoping that she'd pass his inspection.

  * * * *

  By the end of her fïrst week at Circle S, Carrie was used to early rising, despite Noah's nightly visits to her bed. Pushing that unpleasant thought from her mind, she headed toward the corral for her morning ride. Frank and Kyle had taken turns squiring her around and answering questions about the daily workings of the big ranch. Both were easygoing and possessed a rough Texas charm that she found relaxing. I will learn to fit in here, she thought to herself, recalling the vast store of western lore she was absorbing daily.

  Even her horsemanship was slightly improved, although she dreaded being balanced precariously on the back of a bouncing, pitching beast, prey to prairie dog holes, scratchy brush, and sudden noises that might cause the half-controlled horse to skitter and unseat her. Nevertheless, Kyle had actually complimented her the day before when she had doggedly kept her seat after her horse stumbled.

  So pleased was Carrie in recalling her success that she approached the bi
g barn by the corral almost eager to mount. Then she saw Hawk leading her small tan mare and immediately changed her mind. However, before she could turn and flee, his long-legged stride caught up with her. A thin, sardonic smile hovered about his lips.

  “You're late.” The voice sounded bored rather than accusatory. He stood still, letting the mare's reins trail negligently in one hand while he inspected her outfit from head to toe. It was her particular favorite, a long, full riding habit made of rust-colored broadcloth.

  The smirk turned to a disgusted scowl. “Lady, you have too many clothes on.” With that startling pronouncement, he proceeded to slip his wicked-looking knife from its sheath on his left hip. He dropped the reins and stepped closer to her.

  Carrie was frozen. Unless an earthquake swallowed her, there was no way she could move of her own volition.

  In one lightning movement, he grasped the train of her long riding skirt from her hand where she held it to keep it from dragging in the dust. Just as swiftly he fanned it out arid sliced off the whole thing in a neat incision, leaving the skirt one even length, just above the ankles.

  Fright quickly turned to fury as she watched him calmly slip the knife back into its resting place and heard him say in a low silky voice, “Now, why did I just know that you wouldn't scream?”

  “You sadistic brute!” Looking down at the unhemmed ruins of her expensive habit, she ground out the words, wishing her vocabulary were equal to the situation.

  A blinding white smile slashed across his dark face, and he laughed as he picked up the filly's reins. “You couldn't ride this while carrying all that.” He gestured from the saddle to the excess of her skirt piled in a rusty heap on the ground.

  For the first time Carrie noticed the saddle on Taffy Girl. It was a regular western stock saddle, not the sidesaddle she had been using.

  As if reading her mind, he said, “If you want to look ladylike on a dangerous contraption like that sidesaddle, you can fall and be dragged, breaking your beautiful little neck for all I care. But if you want to ride like western women do, I'll teach you. Kyle told me how you nearly fell when Taffy shied yesterday.”

  “But I didn't fall, and he praised me for keeping my seat so well,” she retorted hotly, perversely angry that his common sense should so closely parallel her own thinking about women's riding gear.

  He stood patiently, looking at her as if she were a half-bright child being indulged in a temper tantrum. Without a word she grabbed the reins from him and stomped over to the left side of the mare. When she reached one booted foot up and placed it in the stirrup, she felt his hands span her waist as he effortlessly lifted her into the saddle. Grudgingly, she admitted feeling a foot in a stirrup on each side of the horse gave her a sense of security. However, his hands on her waist did just the opposite.

  “Two stirrups feel comfortable, don't they?” That damn echo of her thoughts again! When she failed to respond and sat mutinously still, chin pointed determinedly forward, he shrugged and turned to swing gracefully on his large bay stallion.

  They rode in silence, broken only when he issued a few terse commands to her about how she pulled on the reins or distributed her weight in the saddle. Nitpicking, she sniffed to herself, but made the necessary adjustments.

  Finally, uncomfortable with her own silence and the feeling of his eyes on her, Carrie turned to look at him and said, “Why did you volunteer to take me riding today?”

  He turned his face in profile, looking straight ahead as he replied levelly, “Maybe I wanted to see if you scare easily, or maybe I wanted to keep you away from Kyle.” He turned to meet her stare head-on now and stated, “He's become rather smitten, or hadn't you noticed?”

  That shocked her, and unwittingly she let out a small “Oh,” before she could stop herself. “That's absurd! Kyle's a smooth-talking, forthright Texan, not some lovesick college boy.” Thinking of the tough bandy-legged Hunnicut next to Gerald Rawlins, she almost laughed at the ridiculousness of the comparison.

  “You underestimate your charms, Carrie.” He paused before he said, “Then again, maybe you don't. After all, what's one crude Texas cowhand for the baron's wife to take notice of?”

  Carrie flushed in fury for the second time in an hour. Damn the hateful man! He was insufferable, unbearable! She groped for a word that was adequate. Bastard! There, she'd found a good word. Now, if only she had the courage to say it out loud!

  After seething for a few hundred yards, she realized he was enjoying taunting her, reveling in her temper and embarrassment. She decided to go on the offensive.

  “Why do you have such a low opinion of me? I understand about the inheritance, that Noah might cut you out if I have children.” She found the last words difficult to say. Lord, I don't want Noah's children! She quickly continued, “But I'm not to blame for what he does. I didn't even know he had a son before we arrived at Circle S. I'm only a pawn in his game, just like everyone else.” Like you.

  Hawk's face was stony. He grated out, “Next I suppose you'll tell me you married a man over twice your age because you respected him so much. Maybe he reminded you of your daddy! How gullible do you think I am, lady? He's a rich, old man. You thought you could wheedle and manipulate him, but, baby, you're sitting in a high-stakes game with a penny-ante poke. He'll flay your pretty gold-digging hide and hang it out in the sun to dry.”

  So he thought she had ensnared Noah for his money and then been beaten into submission! The gall of the man, the abysmal ignorance! Yet a small voice taunted her: It is true that you act like a whipped dog around Noah. Had he truly broken her spirit? With these confusing thoughts tearing at her, Carrie dug her heels into Taffy Girl's sides and rode ahead, ignoring the insensitive oaf who would never believe the truth.

  * * * *

  For the next couple of weeks Carrie saw little of Hawk except at unavoidable dinner-table encounters. One riding lesson sufficed. Once having drawn the battle lines, it seemed father and son decided on a wary, unspoken truce, at least in her presence. They discussed the rustling, the new shorthorn cattle Noah had brought from Oregon, weather, roundup, all the usual things she supposed that cattlemen talked about. She was seldom included in the conversation, but learned a great deal from listening.

  Hawk and Kyle would ride off together and be gone for several days at a stretch. Sometimes a few other men rode with them. Carrie was uncertain about the nature of their mission, but suspected it had to do with the livestock thefts. She wondered what they did when they apprehended a criminal.

  If she saw less of Hawk and the other hands, she saw far more of Noah than she wanted, for he visited her room every night. After arising at dawn to ride out and oversee the vast ranch, as well as making frequent overnight trips to Miles City, how did he have the energy left to bed her?

  Perhaps she would not have minded it as much if only he would have paid some attention to her in other ways, done something to show her he at least considered her a person instead of a brood mare. However, he did not. She was left to her own devices daily. He ignored her every attempt to show him how she was adapting to western life.

  Frank confirmed Hawk's statement that many western `women rode astride. Every day after her dramatic lesson with Hawk, she rode Taffy Girl, accompanied by Frank or one of the other hands he assigned, and she always rode astride.

  Carrie never told Noah about her newly acquired skill, practicing until she was sure she could acquit herself competently. Perhaps this was the way to make him proud of her. She had to try something. As it turned out, she had chosen the wrong thing.

  “Ladies ride sidesaddle! Indian squaws ride astride! Where the hell did you get that rig, and who taught you?”

  Noah's infuriated accusation rang across the stableyard. Several hands overheard, but they quickly pretended they had not and hurried off to do chores in the farthest reaches of the barns and stables.

  Tears welled up in her green eyes, but they were as much from sheer frustrated anger as from disappointment. She had
planned to surprise him with her western skill, but he wanted her to be a proper eastern lady. Now, if she confessed where she learned to ride astride, it would only start more fighting between Hawk and his father. Suddenly a thought struck her. What if Hawk knew how Noah felt about women riding astride? Had he set her up deliberately?

  Well, damn them both! She was fast becoming a good rider, and she wouldn't go back to the old way for anyone. “I see nothing wrong with my using a safe saddle. Last week when we were in Miles City I even saw a pattern for a split riding skirt in the modiste's book. I was thinking of ordering several.” She spoke quietly, amazed at the steadiness of her own voice.

  Noah's face darkened to a fuchsia red as he looked down at the set determination in the eyes of his slim, beautiful young wife. Where had the frightened little tenderfoot gone? God, he would have no repeat of Lola's defiance.

  He grasped her right arm with an iron grip and carefully propelled her toward the house. Carrie flinched from the pain of his grip, but refused to demean herself by making a scene. Woodenly they walked back to the big house to argue·in private.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The sun cast an arc of pink and red light across the eastern sky, followed by deep, hot yellows and golds bathing the lodges of Iron Heart's people in warm summer light. Like all Cheyenne villages, this one was constructed with the tepees in a horseshoe shape. The open end of the horseshoe faced the rising sun, as did the door of each lodge.

  It was nearing the summer solstice, and more and more bands were meeting on this warm plain for great feasting and solemn ceremonies, but the hunt was not as good as it had been in years past. The great masses of shaggy buffalo were thin, and thinning even more. So were the People. Smallpox and cholera decimated them while the bullets of the veho destroyed the sacred buffalo. Still, it was once more summer, and those who were left rejoiced.