Cattle Baron's Daughter Read online

  Copyright

  ISBN 978-1-61626-735-3

  Copyright © 2012 by S. Dionne Moore. All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the permission of Heartsong Presents, an imprint of Barbour Publishing, Inc., PO Box 721, Uhrichsville, Ohio 44683.

  All scripture quotations are taken from the King James Version of the Bible.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously.

  Our mission is to publish and distribute inspirational products offering exceptional value and biblical encouragement to the masses.

  one

  1889

  The jingle of spurs punctuated his every footfall. Ryan Laxalt knew almost no one in Buffalo, Wyoming, though he knew his name would spark controversy and trouble. A man stepped from the stagecoach office and spat on the ground. When he raised his head and saw Ryan he nodded and swiped a hand across his lips. “If’n you’re here to pick up someone, settle in. The stage should be here shortly. Name’s Ronald P. Coltrain.”

  “Looking for information,” Ryan said.

  Ronald’s eyes narrowed, and his gaze swept Ryan from head to foot. “You the law?”

  “No.”

  “Then I ain’t got nothing worth saying.”

  Ryan kept his hands loose at his sides, where his tied-down guns showed much about the manner of man he’d become in his long absence from Buffalo. “You might wish you’d talked.”

  Ronald licked his lips. “Stage is coming in. I’ve got work to do.”

  With a nod, Ryan swung away and retraced his steps. He should have expected as much. Few men wanted to snitch on another.

  He leaned against a post support and squinted up and down Main Street. Strange, this street. What person would lay out a town’s main road with a bend in it so you couldn’t see straight from one end to the other unless you stood in the middle? His mother and father had chosen Johnson County as a place to settle and raise cattle. The town of Buffalo had come along later. Ryan remembered little of the actual town, though his travels had brought him to the Big Horn region once or twice. He’d left to make his own way as a foolish teen. He shook his head and used the heel of his boot to scratch the calf of his other leg. Back then he’d thought he had better methods of earning money, bigger dreams than working hard all day as his father had. Now, remorse at his arrogance stabbed guilt into his gut. The world had made quick work of shattering his idealistic thoughts.

  Ronald popped his head out of the stage office and froze in place. He tilted his head as if listening. At first Ryan heard nothing; then the rattle of traces and the snap of a whip accompanied the distant rumble of horse hooves. He waited and watched as the driver brought the rig to a stop. A plume of dust lifted and spread, encompassing the coach. The driver sprang from the seat as if it were on fire then relaxed against the boot and rolled a smoke as the stage door swung outward. A tall form moved from the shadows of the interior and filled the narrow door. The man turned sideways to accommodate the width of his shoulders. By Ryan’s eye, the man was an easterner. Fancy dress, a vest—rumpled but not looking too much like a man who’d come a far piece in the torturous interior of a hot stagecoach. He supposed the stranger would be a handsome man by a woman’s standards, though to Ryan’s way of thinking, he was far more fastidious than any man should be.

  Behind him a door slapped into its frame, and a rounded woman wearing a dirty apron hurried by him. Other towns-people gathered, too, excited at the prospect of someone new coming to town, and probably even more curious because the man was so well dressed.

  Ryan recognized only one face, and age had laid crags and sprouted more than a few gray hairs on the head of Papa Don, owner of the store. Most of the rest were too young for him to recall their faces.

  The fancy man smacked dust from the legs of his trousers and turned to the coach, oblivious to the small band of people gathering or the dog sniffing at the wheels of the stage.

  Ryan straightened. He had more to do than stand around and ogle the newcomer. But when the man at the stage held out his hand to someone inside, and pale, feminine fingers tucked into his, Ryan’s curiosity got the best of him. A slender woman in a dress of Montana sky blue descended from the stage, and her crop of red curls fluttered in the light breeze. He thought he caught the scent of flowers but crushed the absurd idea when he considered the distance separating him from the stage. The young woman’s expression showed relief as she spoke to the man at her side. Her husband, no doubt. If for no other reason, he had to respect that the man had hitched up with a woman of such beauty.

  Ryan turned from the spectacle of the arrivals just as the stocky woman who had passed him minutes before embraced the willowy figure of the younger woman. A long-ago dream burst to the forefront of his desires. He’d wanted a wife once, before his choices had made marrying dangerous. His gaze landed on the young woman again, still caught in the embrace of the elder woman. Her eyes were closed, and a smile brought radiance to her face. When she opened her eyes, she stared straight at Ryan from over the woman’s shoulder. She offered a friendly, open smile that neither committed nor encouraged—exactly what he would expect of a married woman. Yet the smile was a punch in the gut, a reminder of what he could have had.

  ❧

  Olivia heard the murmur of Phoebe’s voice, even the upward hitch at the end of the string of words that indicated a question, but she couldn’t concentrate. The man’s eyes bore into hers. He seemed angry, though she didn’t understand why. He was a stranger to her. Not a surprise, considering she’d been away from Buffalo for going on ten years. When the man spun on his heel, she traced his path along Main Street with her eyes.

  She felt a touch on her elbow, and she pulled back from Phoebe’s embrace to see a look of concern on her worn but pleasant face. “I asked if you were feeling well.”

  “Oh.” She patted her hair—a mass of ringlets her aunt’s maid had insisted on before she left Kansas. “I’m fine. Just tired.”

  “No doubt, dear. It’s hard to sleep on those rocking conveyances of misery.” Phoebe patted her arm. “You stop by Landry’s, and we’ll serve you up something warm before you make the trek out to your pa’s ranch.”

  Olivia hesitated. She’d been so excited to see her father, yet he was nowhere in sight. “Won’t it be too much to feed another mouth at this time of day?”

  “Between getting the cattle in, branded, and ready for the drive”—Phoebe shook her head, her reddish-brown hair sweeping her shoulders—“the hands don’t come in much during the day in the spring.”

  Even in her letters, Phoebe Wagner was a chatty woman. Olivia remembered very little of her as a nine-year-old, before her father had sent her east to boarding school, but she’d always looked forward to Phoebe’s letters. If only she could say the same about letters from her father. After the first four, he’d never written again, and Phoebe became her only tie to the place she called home.

  “Gather that pigheaded pa of yours and get him to bring you to supper sometime if you don’t want to stay now. I know you must be excited to see the ranch.” Phoebe patted Olivia’s cheek, her hand warm and rough. “I’d love to continue this visit, but I have to run. Landry’s not often nice enough to let me walk out on a whim, whether or not business is slow. Good thing the stage arrives after lunch.” She touched Olivia’s hair “Who would have thought that pale Irish skin and wild red hair would yield such a beauty? Best wear a hat out in this sun though, or those freckles will get worse. And I’ll expect a full report on y
our companion”—she darted a look at the man traveling with Olivia—“as soon as you’re settled.” And with that, Phoebe wheeled and marched back up Main.

  Olivia felt an uncomfortable flare of heat in her neck and turned her head just enough to make sure Tom Mahone had not heard Phoebe’s last remark. Her lungs expanded, and she drew an easy breath when she saw him speaking with an older man, who turned and spat into the dust. Olivia grimaced and averted her face, his low chuckle letting her know he’d seen her look of disgust. She hoped the majority of the town had better manners. The stories she’d heard back east about the West made Olivia wonder if she should have heeded her aunt’s admonition. “Westerners are a rough lot” had become Aunt Fawn’s much repeated warning.

  Tom Mahone stepped to her side and offered his arm. “I’ve arranged with the stage driver to load your trunk into a rented wagon. We’ll head out to your father’s ranch after we eat. Apparently the Occidental is the best place, though Landry’s is closer.”

  Olivia blinked and stared at his arm. “I’d like to head out as soon as possible. It’s been ten years, Mr. Mahone. I’m sure you understand my eagerness to be home again.”

  Tom had picked up the stage in Kansas, and rather than keep her silence, she’d welcomed the easy chatter that had flowed between them. She’d never thought to ask him where he was going, surely not Buffalo. “Don’t you need to get back on the stage before it leaves?”

  Tom tilted his head and pursed his lips. “I believe Buffalo will suit my purposes just fine. Spinner tells me there’s a bigger town close by, and those mountains are something to look at.”

  Olivia already felt pricks of perspiration. “Spinner?”

  “The stage driver.” Tom’s eyes were sober upon her. “So you won’t have supper with me?”

  “I’m sure you understand.” In the bright sunshine, she saw what the relative darkness of the coach had masked, a two-inch white scar beneath Tom’s right eye. It took the edge off his fastidious dress and pale skin. Perhaps the man knew more about life outside an office than she had previously thought.

  Without another word, Tom tilted his head to indicate the approaching wagon and helped her up when it rattled to a stop. The driver grunted at her, the same man she’d seen Tom speaking to moments ago. “Good afternoon, ma’am.” His grin revealed yellowed teeth. She steeled herself not to react to the disagreeable sight. “I’m Ronald Coltrain.”

  As the horses pulled the conveyance down the main street, Olivia felt the rise of anticipation. A sudden urge to slip the pins from her hair and twirl in the sunlight captured her fancy, but she only straightened her skirts and folded her hands in her lap.

  They passed a barn-shaped house with three dormers on each side of the roof and a sign billing it as the Occidental Hotel. Olivia’s eyes took in the quaint building and the outbuildings. As the wagon passed, she glimpsed a man stepping from the hotel. Dark hair, lithe frame, familiar to her. . . Her heart squeezed in her chest when she caught the man’s gaze, and then the wagon rolled past, and she was on her way home.

  two

  Ryan pushed the wide-brimmed hat down on his head to protect himself from the pulsing waves of heat. He had almost decided to take his noon meal in the Occidental’s restaurant, but had changed his mind when he found the dining room empty. Landry’s restaurant held a handful of patrons. Besides, the rounded woman he’d seen hugging the new arrival might offer up some information on the town. Waitresses tended to glean the latest news from the patrons they served. As he prepared to enter Landry’s, the rattle of a wagon made him turn. The curly-headed beauty rode next to Ronald Coltrain. For an instant, their eyes met, until the wagon passed on down the road and he was left with the image of red curls and amber eyes, packaged in a fancy dress of the latest style. Not his type even if she hadn’t been married.

  He took a table farthest from the door, his back against the wall. The air smelled of the deep flavors of roasted meat but also held a tinge of sweetness. A man with a towel tucked into the waistband of his trousers headed his way, giving off an air of boredom. Probably the type roped into the restaurant business by his wife, who was no doubt tucked back in the kitchen slaving away over steaming pots of the daily special.

  “What’s smelling good to you tonight, stranger?”

  Ryan flicked his gaze over the other people, gauging their reaction to a stranger in their midst. Nobody seemed to show any interest. “Meat. Potatoes. Is that cherry pie I smell?”

  “Dried apple.”

  Ah, he should have known. Cinnamon was the sweet undertone hanging in the air. “I’ll have a large slice.”

  “Name’s Robert Landry. If you need anything else, just holler.”

  “Much obliged.” Ryan tilted his head, purposely with-holding his name. Landry didn’t appear concerned by the omission. He spun on his heel and stopped at a table to inquire after two men. Ryan decided by their dress that they were either ranchers or drifters hoping to get hired for the roundup and drive. And considering they acted as if the food in front of them was their first in days, he guessed they must be drifters.

  He considered the handful of others in the restaurant and wondered where the stocky woman was. He had half a mind to saunter toward the kitchen area to see if he could catch a glimpse of her, but he had to be cautious. The problem was not so much in getting information on what had happened to his father, but in trusting those who talked to him to tell the truth. He couldn’t hide his identity, not in a small town, but for these first few hours, he wanted to remain nameless and gather as much information as he could on his father’s murder.

  Landry reappeared with a hot cup of coffee and the pie. He set it down in front of Ryan with a gentleness that belied his size. “You looking for someone, mister?”

  “Who’s askin’?” he said, careful to measure his movements so he wouldn’t appear startled by the question.

  “You’re not familiar. Thought maybe I could help you along the trail a little faster.”

  Ryan relaxed in his chair and gave himself time to sip the hot brew before he answered. “Looking for work. Thought there might be some to be had around here.”

  “You’re late into the season. Most have hired out for the roundups. Could still ride out and see. Some of the bigger spreads might need a hand.”

  “What’s the biggest you got?”

  “Rocking S is plenty big, but so’s the XR.”

  Ryan felt tension biting at the nape of his neck. He took a bite of the pie. The cinnamon mixed with the tang of apples was sweet on his tongue. “The Rocking S. That Sattler land?”

  Landry turned and started back to the kitchen, not seeming the least affected by his question. A good thing, Ryan reasoned.

  “Yup. That’s the one,” Landry said.

  Ryan allowed himself a small smile, congratulating himself on his first victory. He could try to ask more of the man but doubted Landry would be willing or able to sit still long enough. “Is there a woman that works here?” he called out.

  “Phoebe?” Landry stopped and turned, brow raised to punctuate the question.

  “Red-brown hair?”

  “That’s her. She had to take plates of food over to the jail. I’ll tell her you asked after her.”

  Ryan took the last bite and sipped his coffee. “No need.” He would seek her out later.

  ❧

  Olivia’s pulse jumped as they rounded the low hill shielding the entrance to the Rocking S. Despite the clear blue skies, a warm wind traced fingers down her bare neck and sent the curls tickling against her ears. She swiped an errant strand from her eyes and blinked. Her father would know, as Phoebe had, that she was arriving. Her happiness flickered. Of course he wouldn’t be standing by the gate, nor the stage, waiting for her. He was a busy man, and she had chosen one of the most hectic times of the year to come home.

  “Your father must be beside himself with excitement.” Tom’s voice was low, his smile beguiling.

  “It’s been a long time. Everyt
hing has changed.”

  “He will be amazed at the woman you’ve become.”

  Olivia refused to look his direction. His kind words bordered on flirtatious, and what had begun innocently enough as two people stuck in the same stagecoach now seemed to hold a trace of something else entirely.

  Tom leaned forward and touched her hand. “Would you allow me to come calling? Perhaps we could take supper in town together. Soon.” He emphasized the last word.

  Olivia’s lips parted, but her tongue felt paralyzed. “Perhaps,” she finally said. She turned her attention to the corral. The outbuildings looked in fine repair. The curious eyes of men, both on foot and horseback, stared her way.

  The wagon stopped rolling, and Olivia rose to her feet almost as soon as the wheels stilled. Without waiting for Tom, she gathered her skirts as close as she dared and hopped to the ground. She heard Tom clear his throat. The driver chortled. “Beat us to it, she did.”

  She didn’t wait to hear more and rushed to the main house, knowing full well she had the attention of every male on the ranch. Her automatic response was to knock, but she laughed and shoved the door inward. “Daddy? Daddy, I’m home!”

  An old cowhand raised watery hazel eyes from the wide-plank dining table where he sat. A dusty younger man sat across the table. “There something I can help you with, miss?”

  Years fell away as the voice washed over Olivia. “Roper?”

  The wiry old Rocking S hand squinted at her and rasped his hand against a covering of mostly gray whiskers. “Livy?”

  “Li’l Livy, I believe you called me.”

  In slow motion, Roper unfolded from the chair, face bright with recognition. “Why, circle the wagons and call me an Indian. You’re all grown up!”

  “Where’s my father?”

  The younger man scratched his chair back and rolled to his feet. “Best get back to work, Roper.” The man’s gingham-blue eyes latched on to her, cold as the lake ice she skated on back east.

  “You don’t know who this is. This here’s Olivia Sattler,” Roper offered. “Boss’s daughter.”