The Cowboy's Orphan Bride. Lauri Robinson
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ago, when he’d been fourteen and shipped West with a trainload of sad-eyed, snot-nosed kids. They hadn’t all been snot-nosed. Not Bridgette Banks. She’d been the one wiping everyone else’s noses. Taking care of everyone else. That had been her. And of all the things he’d tried to forget about his life back then, she was still the hardest. For all his efforts, he just couldn’t erase her from his mind.
It had been years, but he’d bet his best horse she was still as cute as she’d been back then. He’d yet to see a pair of eyes as blue as hers. He’d bet, too, that her feathery blond hair would still catch in the corner of her mouth when she spouted off over some infraction or another. Though she’d looked sweet and angelic, she’d had the mouth of a New York orphan. He’d appreciated that. Others hadn’t. Especially not Mrs. Killgrove.
He hoped the family that had adopted her had treated her well over the years. She deserved that. That’s all she’d ever wanted. A family. A home. A place she could call her own and people to love. She’d still been on the train when he’d been sold. That’s what it had been. An auction not so unlike the old slavery traditions, except there was no money exchanged for the boys, only promises of providing food and shelter by bidders who didn’t want a child, but a worker. One they didn’t have to pay.
Pulled back to the present by mooing cows, Garth looked at Brad while gesturing toward the cattle. “See that herd? They haven’t had water in two days. That’s my job today, to find water, not sodbusters. If I don’t find water, none of us will sleep tonight. We’ll all be riding guard, hoping they don’t stampede.”
Brad nodded, but didn’t look convinced.
Garth held his temper in order to say, “We gave those calves down south to Indians so they’d let us pass through their territory without any issues. A sodbuster would need to have a cow that would let that calf nurse, and that’s not easy.” Cows didn’t take to orphans any better than humans did. Flustered by having to give a drover a school lesson, Garth spun his horse around. “Shoot it.”
He kneed his horse into a run, and didn’t let it slow until the dust was well behind them. The thought of ordering Brad to put down that calf reminded him of his first drive. He’d been fifteen, and had been assigned to ride drag the entire trip. Afterward he’d sworn that would be the last time. He’d taken it upon himself to learn what it took to be a trail boss, the good and the bad. Putting down that calf was the bad, as was doing the work of two men when he was a man short. That, being a man short, unfortunately, had happened more often than he’d liked over the years. There were just too many men out there who had signed on thinking a trail drive was little more than a stroll to church on Sunday. He’d never regretted a one that had left his employ. If you couldn’t do what had to be done, you’d never amount to anything. That was his motto. Being in a saddle for sixteen hours a day wasn’t unreasonable, and he let go any man who thought otherwise.
Not a one of the men he’d fired had stolen from him. Other trail bosses sometimes discovered men had taken off with a horse from the outfit’s remuda after being fired. He didn’t. He laid down the law on exactly how a thief would be dealt with from the day he hired a man, as well as plenty of other expectations. He lived by the rules he set as strongly as he laid them out.
Despite what some liar in New York had said all those years ago, he’d been honest his entire life, and expected as much from others.
There were fifteen men in his outfit, not counting himself, JoJo—the best trail cook God ever gave a frying pan to—and Bat, JoJo’s helper. While riding alongside the herd, even as his thoughts roamed, Garth counted heads. Human ones. He hadn’t lost a single hand on this trip, and was more than relieved about that. He was pleased, too, and would be the first to admit it took a lot to please him.
Satisfied with the number of men he’d counted and confident the cattle were moving at a solid pace, Garth forced himself to put the calf out of his mind and rode past the point riders to catch up with JoJo.
The chuck wagon always traveled a few miles ahead of the herd, and as Garth rode, the calf crossed his mind again. Even if he found a sodbuster to take it, the calf wouldn’t have much of a chance. Orphans as a whole didn’t stand much of a chance. He was reminded of that every time he traveled north into Kansas.
If the orphanage hadn’t taught him that, the farmer who’d taken him off the train had. He’d spent over a month with Orson Reins before deciding he’d had enough. Orson had said from the moment Garth had arrived at his farm that you could take a boy off the street, but the only way to take the street out of the boy was with a whip. When Orson had broken out his whip again, something had snapped inside Garth and he’d wrestled the whip out of Orson’s hands and left.
He’d carried that whip with him for five years, until one night when he’d burned it, concluding his past was well and gone. He was never going back, so there was no need to hold on to any reminders of his past.
“Heading out, Boss?” JoJo shouted above the rattling of his chuck wagon.
Garth caught up with the wagon, and then reined in his horse next to where JoJo sat on the wagon seat. “I remember some water being a short distance ahead.”
“Still figure we’re about five days out?” JoJo asked.
“Four if we’re lucky.”
“You’re lucky all right,” JoJo answered with a laugh. “This trail is working out for us. You know I had my reservations.”
“You liked the Chisholm,” Garth answered. On his way south last year, he’d veered west to explore the Great Western Trail. Some swore by it, others claimed it was cursed. The same was true for the Chisholm.
“Was used to the Chisholm,” JoJo said. “Knew every hill and water hole on that trail. So did you.”
“We did,” Garth admitted. He’d chosen the Great Western this year because these were his cattle being driven north. After spending all winter acquiring and paying room and board for the whole lot of four-footed beasts, he needed to get top dollar.
“But Dodge is paying more than Wichita right now, so we took this one,” JoJo supplied, rubbing his scruffy gray beard with one hand.
Garth nodded. “You’re smarter than you look. Guess you do have a brain under that bald scalp.” Though Wichita was still accepting cattle, the days of the big drives were limited. The farmers were putting up too much of a fuss and the townspeople were agreeing with them, laying down more and more rules for the cattlemen to follow.
JoJo pointed a finger. “And your mug is uglier than you think.”
Garth laughed. “I never claimed to be handsome, but can’t say I’ve had any complaints, either.”
JoJo chortled, and rubbed his beard a bit more when he asked, “What you gonna do with all that money you’re gonna make on this trip? Got yourself a woman holed up somewhere?”
Garth laughed. A woman was the last thing he wanted. “If I did, I sure wouldn’t tell you about it. You’d try stealing her.”
JoJo laughed so hard he coughed. With watery eyes, he said, “Not me, but Bat might.”
“Uh-uh,” Bat said, shaking his head. “I don’t want no woman telling me what to do.”
Bat was the youngest on the drive. Too young really, maybe ten or twelve, but JoJo wouldn’t leave Texas without the kid he’d found somewhere over the winter. Knowing the options for an orphan too well, Garth had agreed the boy could join them. He wasn’t sorry, either. Bat was a good little worker and certainly earned his wage.
The boy was an added bonus, to Garth’s way of thinking. Bat was the reason JoJo had been willing to leave the outfit he’d been with for the past several years. JoJo never said Evans wouldn’t let a kid join his drive, hadn’t needed to. Bottom line was Evans’s loss had been Garth’s gain. An outfit needed a good cook, and JoJo was one of the best. Even though he was a bit cantankerous at times, and full of himself.
“Now that’s smart