The team came to a ragged halt. After the dust settled, the foreman made his introductions, saying to Gordon: “This here’s a neighbor. Lives up by Quemado.” That was all, and Gordon could tell nothing from Souter’s expression.
The gentleman himself explained: “Edward Donald, sir, at your service.” There was an air of faded gentility about Donald’s person—a stained tie, a white shirt with soiled sleeves and cuffs, clerk’s hands holding the lines. The man could talk, however, and Gordon traded a grimace with Souter.
“My daughter cooked your meals…up to Littlefield’s…begging your pardon, Mister Meiklejon…your place now. When she has a mind to, Katherine works for the old gent. She was teaching school till that fellow started his academy. His own boys burned the place, but Katherine wasn’t asked back, no, sir. Too proud to admit they made a mistake.”
He paused and Gordon thought they’d escaped, but it was only to get a second wind. “I’m all for education… got myself one back East. My Katherine works more to be doing something. Now, Mister Meiklejon, it is a pleasure, sir, to meet you. And when you get tired of riding that bronc’, let me know, and we can find you a suitable mount.
Gordon laughed, an unseemly response. It was impossible to purchase the necessary qualities in one horse. Vanity urged the acquisition of a handsome saddler and common sense led to the Spanish ponies. And here was a horse trader telling Gordon what he needed to suit his station.
“Most folks, they own a pony for distance, a stout bronc’ for roping, and a Sunday horse for the neighbors. You see, Mister Meiklejon, no one horse can satisfy a man’s needs, just like no one woman can.”
It was an unpleasant moment. Gayle Souter reined his pony into its running pace. Gordon lifted his hat in politeness, a gesture that Donald tried to return but Gordon was already gone.
A good ten minutes down the trail, and Souter reined up. “Donald, him and Quitano, they only know one end of a horse.” Gordon agreed, and Souter continued. “The daughter’s hardheaded and some of the boys tried courting her, but she turned them down. If I was younger…hell, Meiklejon, you best watch yourself. Ain’t many women out here like Katherine Donald.”
They camped in the hills before Magdalena. The fire offered comfort as Gordon watched the sky. His mind unfolded around the people he’d met—smiling, frowning, waiting for orders. There was Gayle Souter, and the redoubtable Katherine Donald. The ranch hands, especially Davey Hildahl. He’d met Edward Donald, yet could not sense more than rudeness. He envisioned Rose Victoria Blaisdel—her father an unlikely sire of her beauty. Jack Holden was amusing—the stalwart virtue of an honest outlaw. But it was the eyes and hands of the
Rose Victoria Blaisdel
Chapter Four
She preferred plain Rose. Rose Victoria was a little girl with china eyes. There were times she felt like that doll, but she would not be called by the silly name. The town boys called her Rosie and lingered wherever she was, pushing each other while they tried to ignore her. Rose usually tossed her head, knowing the effect of such an action.
Today Mama brought the news: the Englishman had purchased Littlefield’s ranch. Rose purred. She had already scolded Mr. Meiklejon for the tired lines around his eyes, and he had listened. It had been an intimate exchange, standing so close. The lump in her throat, the beating of her heart. Rose was honest with herself if no one else. It was the thought of freedom that had her heart pounding.
Rose could read—magazines, old newspapers, ladies’ journals loaned to her mother by friends. Reading gave you more places than you could otherwise see. Learning from Miss Donald had left Rose aching. It hurt to cry quietly, it soured in the mouth, burned the eyes, flooded the heart. Rose would not be hurt, not even by her dream.
Mostly Rose did chores: new sheets for the drummer in Room 4, a bucket of milk from the Swede who kept three cows at the edge of town. Rose particularly disliked going to fetch milk. It made her hate the town, her mama, even the patient cow. The Swede would pull at that great udder and grin while she waited.
It came by chance, her first brush with loving. Mr. Meiklejon needed fresh milk for his tea. She let the bucket swing beside her, felt the metal bail shift in her hand. The wind twisted and wove her dress between her legs despite heavy petticoats. She was conscious of the rubbing between her thighs.
She came around the corner into an unmoving object. Rose dropped the empty pail, a strong hand picked it up.
“Here, miss, I think this is yours.”
Looking through her loosened hair, she saw him. Tall and straight, dark hair curled under his hat, eyes that laughed. Rose frowned; no one laughed at her.
“Aren’t you a pretty one? I bet you’re Queen Victoria.”
She giggled. “I’m sure I don’t know you, sir. Please let me pass.” She shoved at him.
He laughed and stepped aside. “Good day, Miss Rose, or do they call you Queenie?” He bowed and removed his hat with a grand sweep and Rose could see his mass of curly hair. She reached to touch that hair, but he replaced the hat. She bit her lip with wanting.
“Miss, you’re too pretty to be mad.” He winked one blue eye and she knew who he was. Talk was all over town but the law never arrested him.
“You’re nothing but an
A funny expression passed over his face. “You do speak your mind, girl. Wouldn’t have thought it of a youngster like you.”
She lashed back: “I’m seventeen!” She took a deep breath. “You haven’t any manners.” He laughed and Rose congratulated herself. Men liked fire in a girl. In their women, she silently amended.
The man wiped a hand across his mouth, then he kissed her. It tasted of whiskey and tobacco and a sweeter taste. A chaste kiss, with his mouth gentle on her closed lips. Rose wiggled against him and his mouth went to her neck. He pulled until she was standing up against him. Buttons from his shirt touched her neck, pressed against her jaw, and she could feel him breathe in and out.
“You’re quite a girl, Rose. Quite a special girl.” His head came down and he used his chin to guide her until he could reach her mouth again.
When they parted, Rose saw her tall outlaw through blurred eyes. She was pushed back so gently that it was not an insult. Her outlaw grinned, wiped his hands on his pants again and bent down, picked up the tin bucket, and placed it in Rose’s hands.
“Now you don’t want folks wondering where you are, Rose. You tend to your work, and I’ll take care of mine.” He walked past her and she could hear him say: “You’re quite a girl, Queen Rose Victoria.”
Rose dropped the miserable bucket and rubbed her hands over her arms where he had pulled her close. She shivered and felt a new ache beneath that place, and she wanted to cry and laugh.
There was laundry to be done, Mama informedher, once back home. Then Mama took Rose’s face by the chin and laid a hand to Rose’s forehead, bit her lip in concentration. When Rose said she’d run part way and was out of breath, Mama let her go, glad to be relieved of parental concern.
Meiklejon needed his clothes washed. It was Rose’s job to wash a stranger’s soiled clothing, to ruin her hands on the board, scouring with strong soap. Rose did not avert her eyes as she’d been told to do when she hung up a gentleman’s undergarment. Men were no different than the ugly range bulls, snorting and pawing where females were concerned. Mama made such a fuss about propriety, so Mama should hire a less ladylike town girl. Rose stuck her hand back in the hot water, pulled out a pair of blue cotton drawers with buttons and lacings, and laughed.
