The Cattleman Meets His Match. Sherri Shackelford
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mixture was strange and soothing. Despite the cool night, warmth spread through her limbs.
Shadows dotted the horizon, silhouetted against the moonlight. Restless cattle lowed at their arrival and Moira shivered. The glow of a fire marked the center of the camp. A wagon and three oatmeal-colored canvas tents were pitched in an arc around the cheery flames. The orderly sight was reassuring.
When she’d turned eighteen, she’d left the Giffords with little more than the clothes on her back. The gentleman who’d delivered their milk took pity on her and talked his brother-in-law into giving her a job. The brother-in-law owned a hotel and she cooked and cleaned for her room and board. She’d even kept in touch with the delivery boy from the grocer, and he’d promised to tell her if Tommy returned to the Giffords.
She’d never have considered it possible, but she’d traveled the West in style up until now. Moving from train depot to train depot, staying among people, clinging to the last vestiges of civilization, keeping her adventures urbane. Everything beyond the trampled town streets was wild and untapped.
While she drank in her new surroundings, John gathered the girls into a tight circle and spoke, “These cattle aren’t easily spooked, but they’re not used to your voices or your scents. They don’t know you’re a bunch of harmless girls. No loud noises or sudden moves. Stay within fifteen feet of the fire at all times. Once an animal that size stampedes, there’s no stopping.”
Hazel fiddled with the drooping rickrack on her hem. “Can we pet them?”
“Not now,” the cowboy replied without a hint of impatience. “Maybe in the morning. It’s for your own good. I’m keeping you safe.”
Safe. Moira hugged her arms around her chest. They weren’t safe. They’d simply turned down the flame. That didn’t mean they were any better off than they were before. Well, except the odds were better and the doors weren’t locked. They could run if they chose.
John whistled softly and a blur of white and brown padded into view. Moira took an involuntary step backward. A large gold-and-white collie appeared. The dog took its place at John’s heel and tilted its head. The cowboy absently patted the animal’s ears.
The four girls immediately rushed forward.
“He’s so cute!”
“What kind of dog is he?”
“Can he sleep with us tonight?”
John held up his hands. “Easy there. This is a working dog. He’s not real friendly.”
Moira craned her neck for a better view. The “working” dog had rolled onto its back. Its pink tongue lolled out the side of its snout while four paws gently sawed the air.
Darcy snickered. “He looks pretty friendly to me.”
Though the dog appeared harmless, Moira kept her distance. She’d been bitten once and the experience had left her wary. Dogs were unpredictable and temperamental. Best not to get too close.
Hazel rubbed her hand along the puff of fur of the dog’s belly. “What’s her name?”
“His name is Dog.”
“He’s far too handsome for such a plain name,” Sarah declared, rubbing one furry ear between her thumb and forefinger. “I think we should call him Champion.”
“Or Spot,” Hazel added.
Darcy shook her head. “That’s stupid. Why would we call him Spot? He doesn’t have a single spot on him.”
The cowboy pressed two fingers against his temple. “He doesn’t need a name. He’s already got a name.”
“Dog is a silly name,” Hazel grumbled. “Just like Bullhead is a silly name. You’re not very good at naming pets.”
John smothered a grin with one hand. “I’ve been accused of a lot of shortcomings, but I have to say that’s a new one.”
“Then we’ll give him a better name.” Hazel backed away several paces. “Come here, Champion.”
The dog trotted over.
Though the cowboy’s face remained impassive, Moira noted the rise and fall of his chest as he heaved an exasperated breath.
She grudgingly admired John’s even temper. Weak with hunger, her mood swung between rage and despair at a moment’s notice. Right now she’d give anything for a soft bed and a slice of pie. Apple pie. A thick cut of crispy crust. She pictured cinnamon-flecked filling oozing between the tines of her fork. Her mouth watered and she swayed on her feet.
“What’s all this?” another voice called.
Moira snapped to attention. A squat man emerged from the farthest tent. As round as he was tall, his bowed legs were exactly half of his size. A shock of gray hair topped his perfectly round head and his plump face was smooth and cleanly shaven. He adjusted his belt and crossed his arms over his chest.
The cowboy tossed a log onto the fire, sending a shower of sparks drifting skyward. “I’ve brought you some mouths to feed.”
“What happened to the fellows?”
“Gone.”
The abrupt answer piqued Moira’s curiosity.
“Good riddance, I say,” the older man replied. “Not a decent one in the lot.”
John grunted and motioned between the squat man and the girls. “This is Pops. Pops, this is Darcy, Tony, Sarah, and little Hazel. They’ll be staying with us tonight. And they could all use some grub.”
John motioned Moira forward. “And this is Miss O’Mara, she’s in charge of the girls.”
“Well, not exactly, I wouldn’t say—” Moira stuttered over her scattered explanation.
She was the outsider.
No one ever put her in charge of anything, let alone anyone. Her vagabond life from orphan to foundling had shaped her into an expert at dealing with rejection. She spent her time hovering on the fringes, unnoticed. She came and went before anyone had a chance to know her.
Folks didn’t trust loners. Which at times she found annoying, especially considering the people who’d betrayed her trust most egregiously were the ones she’d known best of all.
Pops extended his hand. “Pleased to meet you, Miss.”
Moira offered a quick shake and a weak smile.
“You look fit to eat your shoe leather,” the old man continued. “Let me fetch something that’ll stick to your ribs.”
“I’ll help,” Sarah offered quickly.
Moira blinked. As the most shy of the bunch, she hadn’t expected Sarah to step forward.
The next twenty minutes passed in a blur. Moira and the girls ate quickly, devouring the simple stew with gusto. Their chattering gradually quieted and their shoulders drooped. Pops and John rustled up a stack of blankets and Moira arranged them inside the tent nearest the warming fire. Once all four girls had pulled the covers over their shoulders, she sat back on her heels.
The dog wove his way through the tent, sniffing each girl in turn before returning outside and lying before the closed tent flaps and resting its snout on outstretched paws.
With her hunger sated for the first time in days, Moira transformed from bone-weary exhaustion into a bundle of nerves. Not tired, but not quite awake either. She was anxious and uncertain. The evening had been a chaotic ride fraught with danger. There’d been a time when she would have lit a precious candle and read until her restlessness passed, but she hadn’t either a book or a candle.
Emerging from the tent, she gingerly stepped over Champion before arching her back. John crouched before the fire, arranging the logs with the whittled point of a stick.
Moira glanced around. “Where’s