The Cattleman Meets His Match. Sherri Shackelford
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on the back, lauding his clever handling of the situation. While the rescue hadn’t been particularly elegant, he’d accomplished his goal. He’d saved the girls from the dubious justice of a drunken vigilante and disabled the man in the process. What had his false pride netted him? He hadn’t solved anything. He’d mined a heap of new problems instead.
One night, John told himself. He’d lost a whole day already, what was one more?
His brothers’ words rang in his ears. You’ll never make it without our help.
All his life they’d treated him as though he wasn’t capable. Every bit of clothing he’d had growing up had been a hand-me-down. If he had an idea, they had a thousand reasons why it wouldn’t work. If he wanted to try something new at the ranch, he had to ask permission like a child. At thirty-three years old, they still treated him as though he was a kid. Truth be told, he was the odd man out in his family. He’d always been more relaxed, more easygoing than the rest of his siblings.
His brothers attacked their responsibilities, no matter how minor, with all-consuming zeal and they expected him to do the same. John figured there were times when letting go was just as difficult as fighting. Yet he’d never once seen a monument erected in honor of a calculated retreat.
He and his brother Robert had fought the worst. Their last argument had divided the family, and John had realized it was time to set out on his own. If he stayed, one of them was bound to say something they couldn’t take back. The only way they were going to get along was if one of them backed down. He’d demanded his share of the herd and declared his intention to take over the homestead his older brother Jack had abandoned when he’d married.
You’ll never make it without our help.
Robert’s words rang in his ears. John pulled out his watch and checked the time. Eleven o’clock. Too late for anything but sleeping. He’d quit tomorrow, when things were less complicated.
Hazel tugged on his pant leg. “I’m tired. Can we come home with you?”
“I don’t have a home. Not here anyway.” Weary resignation softened his voice. When had his simple goal become this complicated? “I’m driving a herd of cattle to Cimarron Springs, Kansas.”
He felt another tug on his pant leg.
Hazel’s liquid brown eyes stared up at him. “Do you have any food at your camp?”
John’s throat tightened. His whole life he’d been surrounded by the suffocating pressure of family. But he’d never gone to bed hungry.
And he’d never been homeless. “When was the last time any of you ate?”
Hazel shrugged.
John studied each of the girls in turn, their personalities already forming in his mind. Sarah kept her face downcast, as though asking for help was an imposition. Tony met his questioning gaze straight on, challenging. Darcy remained hesitant, uncertain, caught between rebellion and desperation.
Moira’s eyes haunted him most of all. A curious shade of pale blue-green, the color of the tinted glass of a mason jar, translucent and ethereal. Hopeless. The foreign emotion resonated in his heart. You couldn’t mourn for something you’d never had. What had Moira hoped for, and lost? She hadn’t hoped for someone like him, that much was certain. She’d made her disdain of him apparent. Yet the desolate look in her eyes was hauntingly familiar. He’d seen that look once before.
Years ago, Robert had lost his wife during a bank robbery gone sour. He’d never forget the agony his brother had suffered. The pain of loss his niece and nephew had worn from that moment on. The death of their mother had bent them like saplings in the wind. They’d survived the tragedy, but they were irrevocably changed.
Robert had changed, too. He’d been married and widowed young. A man who’d grown old before his time beneath the weight of tragedy. Four years separated the brothers in age, though it might as well have been forty. He couldn’t bridge the chasm between them—because knowing why Robert had changed and getting along with him were different things. After their last fight over how to run the family ranch, John had known he could no longer stay without tearing the rest of the family apart.
He rubbed his forehead. He had enough food back at camp to feed four hungry crewmen. Certainly enough for a few scrawny females.
He was well and truly trapped by his own conscience.
One night, he repeated. What was the harm in sheltering the girls for one night? Yet the past two months had taken its toll on his endurance. Even the most basic problems had multiplied, popping up like wild mushrooms after a spring rain.
Impatient with his indecision, Hazel took his hand. “Why are you taking your cattle for a walk?”
“It’s not a walk,” John patiently explained. “It’s called a drive. I’m driving them to Cimarron Springs.”
“How come?”
“Because I was tired of trying to prove myself,” John grumbled beneath his breath.
Hazel’s innocent questions struck too close to the heart of the matter. He didn’t have any strength left to pretend he didn’t care. Feigned complacency took energy, and he was plum out of flippant answers. Everyone in a family had a role, and John’s role had been determined before he’d toddled off the porch and cut his chin. A scar he still bore. A preconceived legacy he couldn’t shake.
He was the one who dove in headfirst without heeding the dangers. He was the most impulsive of his family, the most easygoing, too, as far as he could tell. Which meant his brothers rarely took his ideas seriously. When he’d declared his intent to purchase his brother Jack’s plot of land in Cimarron Springs and drive his share of the herd north before Kansas closed its borders against longhorns, Robert had scoffed.
You’ll lose your shirt.
John hadn’t lost yet.
He did have an idea how to stop the girls’ incessant questions. “You can stay with me tonight.” A body couldn’t talk while eating. “I’m coming back to town tomorrow. We’ll find help during the day. There’s nothing else we can do this late.”
The relief on their faces disgraced him. “Can any of you ride?”
Tony and Darcy nodded.
Moira shrugged. “Some.”
He’d earlier judged Miss O’Mara’s age as early twenties. Old enough for courting and pretty enough for dozens of marriage proposals. John pictured the girls back home with their giggles and coy smiles. Moira could easily pass for one of those girls. She had a sweet face, pale and round, with a natural dusting of pink on her cheeks. Her lips were full and rose colored, perfect for kissing. But despite the natural innocence nature had bestowed on her face, her eyes held a jarring, world-weary cynicism.
John plucked the hat he’d lost during the fight from the ground and dusted the brim. He slanted a glance at the prone man who lay where Moira’s discarded pitchfork had rendered him senseless. Their pursuer would come to soon enough, and he’d be spitting mad.
They didn’t have much time. “I’ll take you back to my camp. We’ll figure out the rest in the morning.”
Moira moved protectively before the girls. “Is there anyone at camp besides you?”
“Yes,” John answered truthfully.
She pursed her full lips and he glanced away from the distraction.
Moira tsked. “Then the answer is no. I’ll take care of the girls myself.”
The return of her elusive temper buoyed his spirits. That was more like it. “I’ve got a cook. His name is Pops and I’m pretty sure he’s as old as dirt. And ornery. But he makes good grub.” John laughed drily. “Too bad you weren’t a bunch of boys. I’d hire you on as my new crew and save myself another trip into town.”
His joke fell on deaf ears. A myriad of emotions