Color of the Wind Page 10

  Fear gathered in her chest and rose hot beneath her skin. She wanted to run, to flee as this pony had fled, before Baird's charm and power coerced her.

  Still, he could only use that power against her if she let him. She might not understand how the sorcery worked, but in these last years, she'd learned to protect herself. She could use that knowledge to protect the children, if it came to that.

  Ardith took a shaky breath and shaded her eyes with her hand. Out in the corral, Baird continued his work with the pony.

  He rubbed his coiled rope against the pony's neck and chest, pausing just before the pony shied, giving it time to collect itself. He brushed the rope on its withers and legs, its back and flanks. He exchanged the rope for a folded saddle blanket. By the end of the day the little black mustang was trotting around the ring with a saddle cinched firmly in place.

  You would find it hard to believe what Baird has managed to accomplish with those mustangs. Within a day or two of their first lesson, he had a saddle on each of them.

  Even then he worked gradually, testing his weight on each of the stirrups, easing slowly into the saddle. Once the horses had accepted him as a rider, he began to put the ponies through their paces.

  By the time Baird and the men set out for the roundup ground this morning, he had managed to turn all the mustangs into perfectly acceptable saddle horses.

  Ardith paused and smiled at the memory.

  The scene was like something from one of my ten-penny dreadfuls. The cowboys rode out, driving the horses that would make up the saddle band. The chuck wagon rattled along behind, clattering and clanging. They will be gone the best part of six weeks, and after that I shall be able to come home.

  Though I am tremendously impressed with what Baird has been able to accomplish with the horses, I can't help wishing he was spending half as much time with China and the boys. They need his attention far more than these horses do. The children are all mopey now that he's gone. While they are not easy youngsters to manage, I think we will get on tolerably well until he returns.

  Just then Durban came dragging in from somewhere out back. In spite of his animosity toward his father, he seemed as dispirited as China and Khy by Baird's absence.

  The boy came to where she was sitting and stood over her. "Aunt Ardith," he began.

  She was surprised at seeing the taut line of his mouth. The reticence that had been less evident these last weeks had returned. "What is it, Durban?" she asked him.

  "I was wondering—" He lowered his gaze. "—if while Papa is gone..."

  He paused and fidgeted. Durban almost never fidgeted. "Yes?" Ardith asked, intrigued.

  "...if while Papa is gone you could teach me something about riding."

  Ardith did her best to keep her mouth from popping open in astonishment. "I'll be happy to teach you," she assured him. "Shall we have our first lesson this afternoon?"

  Durban ducked his head. "All right," he answered and spun on his heel.

  With a slow, half-smile Ardith watched him go.

  I am enjoying my time in the West, dear Gavin, far more than I ever expected. Perhaps now that the horses are broken and everyone has gone off to the roundup, I'll have a chance to finish the illustrations I have been promising you. Please be patient with me, and take care of yourself while I am here.

  My fondest regards,

  Ardith

  As an afterthought, she took up her pen and sketched a horse and rider at the bottom of the page. In the drawing the rider was waving, just as Baird had waved to the four of them this morning before he'd ridden out of sight.

  Chapter 6

  They met up with the men from six other ranches at the roundup ground on Crazy Woman Creek. As they rode in, Baird estimated there must be nearly a hundred men and six or eight times as many horses milling around a cluster of half-a-dozen wagons. The cattle themselves were not yet much in evidence. Only a score of cows and their calves were confined in a makeshift corral.

  As the hands from the Sugar Creek drew rein, a tall man hailed them from the center of the encampment.

  "That's Thornton Watkins," Buck Johnson murmured as he and Baird rode closer. "He's the captain in charge of this division."

  The man striding toward them was tall and seemed as broad as an oxbow across the shoulders. The hair that flowed from beneath his battered hat was iron gray and frothed like breakers against his collar. A grin broke across his wind-worn features as he came closer. "You look like winter sat hard on you this year, old man," Watkins hooted in greeting.

  Johnson dismounted, grinning back. "I hear the Devil came to take your soul, but he decided you were too damn ornery to invite to hell."

  Watkins and Buck thumped each other soundly on the back. When they were done, Watkins gave a nod in Baird's direction. "Who's the pup?"

  It was years past the time when anyone should have referred to Baird as a pup.

  "Baird Northcross," Johnson informed him. "This year's manager."

  "Fresh from London, is he?" Watkins asked.

  "Not all that fresh," Baird spoke up.

  Watkins leveled a measuring, black-eyed gaze on Baird. "Last year's manager—Warner? Wycliffe?—some such name, only stayed through one day of roundup. You going to be here longer than that?"

  "We'll have to see."

  "I expect he will," Johnson volunteered, voicing a faith in Baird's abilities that took Baird by surprise.

  "Well then, Northcross, come along with us and have a cup of coffee. I'll introduce you to the others."

  Baird dismounted and followed them toward the fire. He recognized some of the men who were gathered around it. He'd hunted with the Frewen brothers at a country estate in the Midlands several years before, and he knew Horace Plunkett from evenings at White's. He acknowledged his introduction to each of them with a nod of his head.

  Cullen McKay stood off to one side. "My, my, Cousin Baird," he murmured when they came face to face. "I wasn't sure you'd last out here as long as this. Tell me, how are your children and lovely sister-in-law?"

  "Well enough, I suppose," Baird answered levelly. Since he and McKay would be living in each other's pockets for the next six weeks, it seemed irresponsible to take offense at the first thing the man said.

  Watkins continued with the introductions. Baird shook hands with Tom Mathews, a ranch hand who'd started his own small spread off to the east; with Mayfield Jennings, a former Texas Ranger with polished manners and callused palms; with a good many other men.

  After having spent the day in wrestling, horse races, and foolery, everyone gathered near Watkins' wagon so the captain could lay out his plans. "Our district runs from Sayles Creek to the Middle Branch of Crazy Woman Creek, and from the Powder River to the face of the Big Horns. I think it's best if we cover the country from east to west, starting tomorrow with Mathews' range."

  Watkins scrawled a map in the dirt indicating the wagons' main line of travel. He showed how men would fan out to the north and south, and where they would turn back.

  "This over here," he pointed to the southeastern section of his rough map, "is all pretty broken countryside, so we'll need to scour every dip and every hollow looking for beeves. Once you find them, relay them back toward where the wagons will be set up for nooning. Then we'll see about getting the animals branded.

  "Buck," Watkins went on, "I want you to take men from the '76 and the Sugar Creek and ride north. Mathews, you head down south. Put your best men and circle horses on the perimeter, and turn the others back a few at a time to ride the gullies and the draws. Everyone know what we're doing?"

  There was a mumble of assent, and the meeting broke up.

  As Baird and Buck ambled back toward the Sugar Creek's wagon for supper, the older man spoke. "I want you riding the outside sweep with me tomorrow. I'll show you what to do and let you try it yourself in a day or two."

  Baird shrugged uncomfortably. "Perhaps you should have one of the more experienced men accompany you," he suggested.

&nb
sp; The older man glanced at him. "I wouldn't have asked you if I didn't think you could keep up. You got a lot to learn about ranching, boy, but you already know how to bounce your butt in a saddle."

  Baird was unaccountably warmed by the older man's words. Perhaps he was going to prove useful in this enterprise after all. He carried that warmth around with him as they sat by the campfire eating supper, and as the men swapped stories of other roundups. He carried it until he headed down to the creek to wash up for the night.

  Cullen McKay crested the top of the bank not two minutes later. Baird bristled a little as the other man approached, but he tried to tell himself it was coincidence that had brought them both here at the same time.

  Cullen's first words disabused the notion. "I thought you'd like to know, I recently got a letter from Chuffy Culverson."

  "Oh?" Baird crouched to dip his bandanna in water still icy with winter runoff, trying to call up some memory of the boy they must both have known at Harrow.

  "Chuffy's in London for the Season," McKay went on, "and he says everyone's talking about Cousin Bram's death."

  Baird's belly pitched, going as cold as the water running over his hands. "Cousin Bram?" he managed to murmur.

  McKay ambled closer. "No one seems to know exactly how he died. They said he'd gone off hunting somewhere."

  Baird didn't want to talk about Bram's death, much less recount it for McKay. Still, he felt compelled to specify. "In Burma. He was hunting in Burma."

  "Ah yes, Burma," McKay confirmed. "Do you know what happened?"

  Visions of Bram sprawled torn and bloody on the matted grass swam through Baird's head. He could smell the gunpowder and hear the bearers wailing.

  The bandanna he'd been wringing slipped between his fingers and fell into the creek. Retrieving it gave Baird a moment to regain control of himself. His lungs burned as he sucked in a ragged breath and used it to give credence to the lie. "A tiger got him."

  "A tiger you say? Oh, poor devil!" McKay grimaced, though his gaze was avid.

  "Yes." Shivers radiated along Baird's ribs. To hide the way his hands were shaking, he wiped his face and neck with the dripping bandanna. He couldn't let McKay see how much the questions about Bram unsettled him.

  He found himself longing for a good deep dose of Irish whiskey, and he concentrated on thinking how it would burn in his throat and warm his chest, on how drinking enough would banish memories of Burma and lull him to sleep. But there'd be no strong spirits tonight. All Watkins allowed on his drives was medicinal whiskey.

  As if suddenly reminded where they were, Baird became aware of men on the far side of the rise bidding each other good night. He noticed the thump and splinter of someone chopping wood for tomorrow's fire and heard the distant lowing of cattle.

  Those sounds drowned out the conspicuous thudding of his own heart and gave Baird the impetus he needed to push to his feet. "I hear Watkins gets us up pretty damned early, so if you've no other news, I believe I'll search out my bedroll."

  The other man watched him speculatively. "Indeed, Cousin, we both must prepare for tomorrow. And please pass my condolences on to Cousin Bram's legitimate relations when you have the chance."

  Baird collected his bedding from the camp wagon, spread it on the ground, and lay for a very long time staring up at the sky. He felt wrapped in its endless expanse, enfolded in profound, dimensionless blackness.

  Was this what death was like? An infinity of endless night, a world without substance or form? A vast, oppressive emptiness? Was this where Bram had gone? And his poor Ariel?

  Ariel. He shifted amid his blankets and closed his eyes. The vision of her might as well have been painted on his eyelids. The way she'd smiled at him when they first met had started everything. The brush of their hands when he asked her to dance had set off sparks. The force between them had been like gravity, like the pull of the earth on the moon. The first kiss they shared had sealed their fate.

  Baird blinked and stared into the dark. It had been so good at the beginning, all feverish heat and expectation, all hope and need and possibilities. But he and Ariel had never been able to build a life on the intensity that had drawn them together. She'd wanted swishing silk dresses, champagne suppers, and dancing until the sky blushed bright with dawn. He'd needed reckless gallops with the wind in his face, far-flung places, and adventures. Neither of them had known how to find the common ground that might have enabled the love that had drawn them together to fulfill its promise. In the end, only embers of the magic remained, embers that had kindled that last night in London.

  They'd gone to dinner at Antire House. It had been a pleasant evening until their host inquired about the hunting in Burma. Baird had managed to hold himself together long enough to frame an answer, long enough to finish dinner and voice their regrets. They'd been back at Arthur Merritt's townhouse by half past ten.

  Ariel had removed her garnet necklace and matching earrings and dropped them onto her dressing table before she turned to him. "I was quite enjoying myself at the marquis'," she complained. "Why did you make me leave so early?"

  Baird hesitated and studied his wife, then decided not to lie to her. "Antire asked me about Burma, and I didn't want to talk about Bram."

  He needed to tell her the whole of it, tell someone who wouldn't censure him for Bram's death. Not that he didn't deserve it.

  He'd crossed the bedchamber to where Ariel was standing, a shimmering tower of claret-colored velvet and silky skin. He stood for a moment, looking down into that beautiful face. He didn't know if his wife would spurn him or offer consolation once she learned the truth, but he had to find a way to ease his anguish.

  "Ariel," he whispered, fighting for control of the memories, for the courage to speak. "I—I need to tell you..."

  For an instant dread flickered across those pale, perfect features, then she gave him her most coquettish smile. She slid her cool, soft hand between the studs at the front of his evening shirt and pressed her fingers against him.

  "You don't have to tell me anything," she whispered. Rising on tiptoe she'd claimed his mouth.

  The embers left between them had burst into flame. He'd made love to his wife like a man possessed, and those moments of frustration and frenzy had left Ariel carrying his child. They'd made him fully and irrefutably responsible for his wife's death.

  Baird shifted in his bedroll and focused on the vast, black void of the Western sky. Wherever Ariel was, she'd taken the last scraps of his youth and idealism away with her, the finer parts of himself. He felt old, disheartened, drunk down to the dregs.

  How had he and Ariel managed to squander the love they'd felt for each other? Baird's throat ached with regret. His chest heaved. His vision blurred, smudging the stars that swirled off into the endless night. Why was he still here when Ariel was gone? Why had God spared him when she and Bram had been struck down?

  He was the one who was unworthy.

  He swiped at his eyes with the back of one hand, and by degrees the world around him reasserted itself. A breath of breeze rustled the grass around his bed. An earthy coolness crept along his skin. A salting of stars winked into focus high above. He could hear the whickering of horses and the snort of a sleeper a few feet away.

  Intensely aware of the sharp, crisp air in his lungs and the throb of life around him, Baird finally closed his eyes.

  The very next instant someone was shaking him awake. In a blink the sky had gone from velvet black to pearlescent gray. He heard groans from the men around him, felt the morning damp, and smelled the tang of frying bacon. He rolled to his feet and tied up his bedding.

  "You riding out with me, Mr. Northcross?" Buck Johnson hollered from the far side of the campfire.

  "Be right there," Baird answered back.

  As daylight banded the horizon with red and gold, they caught and saddled their circle horses. They rode out with more than a score of men into a country where grasses swayed restlessly, and cycles of rainstorm and drought had nibbled
finger-like draws into the gray-brown soil.

  As they traveled, Buck sent men off in twos and threes, until only the pair of them was left, galloping their horses across the prairie. The rising sun limned each blade of grass with gold. The wind carried the tang of sage. They drew rein on a rise above the Powder River, and Baird reveled in the way its surface swam with slivers of coppery light.

  There was something in this land that fed his soul. He'd known it the first time he'd ridden out with Buck, the first time he'd seen all this from the top of the ridge. That affinity had grown during the long, raw days of early spring when he'd given himself over to the glorious simplicity of this work. Of this place. He'd found peace in the incalculable scope of the plains, security in the folds of the mountains, welcome in the silence. And to think he'd argued with his uncle about coming here.

  This country offered a man a future he could grasp and hold, a tangible connection to work and life and the enduring power of nature. It could convince a man new beginnings were possible, and he found himself longing for a chance to make himself part of something larger and more lasting than himself.

  Beside Baird, Buck Johnson shifted in the saddle. When he spoke it was clear his thoughts had been running a very different course.

  "There used to be buffalo out here," he began in a voice gone low with something that sounded suspiciously like regret. "So many the plains were black with them. You ever see a buffalo, boy?"

  Baird shook his head.

  "They're magnificent animals, a thousand pounds of muscle on the hoof. The Cheyenne and the Sioux thought the buffalo would keep their people clothed and fed for centuries."

  "What happened to them?"

  Johnson shook his head. "Men came west. Hunters like me working for the railroad or the army. We shot as many buffalo as we could, stripped them of their hides, and left their carcasses to rot in the sun."

  Baird could not imagine such carnage here—especially not this morning when life seemed so bright and new. It was like the sun was being born on that horizon, and the earth was quickening beneath its amber glow. He felt its warmth on his skin, felt its soothing heat sink into him.