she asked.
Valois frowned. “You might say that.”
She did not smile, but she looked as if she might. “You're on Farley's black list now, you'll never get a job in Kiefer or Sabo—unless it's on this lease. I could use another man like Mr. Grant, a man with nerve. Nobody ever accused you of lacking nerve, Turk.” She turned to go back to the dugout. “If you want to work here, tell my brother I said to put you on.”
After Rhea had gone, Grant and Valois stood for several uncomfortable moments in silence. Then the runner abruptly turned and walked away, and Grant saw him heading toward the bunkhouse where Bud Muller was.
So this, Grant thought, is the way it ends. And there was a heaviness within him as he shrugged and followed Rhea to the dugout. He knocked on the door and waited for a moment, then Rhea opened it, her eyes widening in faint surprise.
“What is it, Mr. Grant?”
“I don't like the way things are shaping up,” Grant said. “I thought you ought to know.”
For a moment she did nothing, then she opened the door and motioned for him to come in.
“Because I hired Turk Valois?”
He hesitated, then nodded. “I guess that's it. I like Valois, he's sober and honest, just the kind of man I take to, but within a week I'll be hating his guts if both of us try working here.”
“Why do you think I hired Valois?”
“Because he's a fair hand with a gun, because he's got guts, and has no love for Ben Farley.”
This seemed to surprise her. “Those are exactly the reasons for my hiring him. Is there anything wrong with them?”
“Just one thing,” Grant said tightly, and only now did he realize that an icy anger lay behind every word. “He's in love with you—and you don't care if he lives or dies. He's taking the job because he thinks you want him—and you're hiring him because he might help you out of a tight spot.”
That strained expression of almost smiling touched her face again. “And how does this affect you, Mr. Grant?”
“Because I guess I'm fool enough to love you, too.” The words came out before he could stop them. And when he realized what he had said, he felt that he must go on. “If I'd had any sense I never would have come to Kiefer with you. I wouldn't have risked my neck to save your money in Vinita.”
Her faint smugness had deserted her now, and her eyes were completely serious. In her woman's mind she realized that her own future was being threatened, and she prepared to fight in her own way. With an impatient gesture she ripped off her bulky windbreaker and threw it into the corner of the room, and she stood before Grant with the knowledge that she was attractive, even beautiful. Not even the man's shirt and corduroy breeches and heavy boots could mask the fact that she was beautiful and desirable, and with these, her own peculiar weapons at hand, she prepared to fight.
“You're behaving like a child,” she said. “I need you and I need Turk; I need both of you if I'm to fight Ben Farley.” She moved closer, until Grant could almost feel the warmth of her, and she looked at him steadily with that faint half-smile. “What do you want, Joe? Is it money? There'll be plenty for everybody when the well comes in—I'll make you part owner. I'll put it in writing.”
But it wasn't money he wanted, and Rhea Muller knew it. “Forget Turk Valois, Joe, he means nothing to me.”
“He did once.”
Nothing changed in her face. If she experienced any regret, or any emotion at all, she did not let it show. “That was long ago,” she said quietly. “Not long in the way years are measured, but long just the same. I was young and wanted something very much, respectability and security. And I wanted all the nice things that women like. I thought for a little while that Turk Valois could give me those things and I would be satisfied, but I soon learned that that was not enough.”
“What you mean,” Grant said stiffly, “is that you lost interest in Valois as soon as he lost his money.”
This time she did smile, but it was a strangely sad expression. “I suppose Turk believes that. He's a proud man.”
They stood there for one long moment, and Grant found himself believing that maybe she was telling the truth. She was right about Valois being a proud man—perhaps the fact that Rhea could not love him for himself was more than his pride could accept, so he had convinced himself that she had quit him because of the money.
He would not look directly at Rhea, although she was standing so close to him that he could have touched her by slightly moving his hand. She said, “Don't leave, Joe. I need you.”
He hadn't had much experience with women, especially women like Rhea Muller. He hadn't known that the strongest determination could melt and the simplest plan go to pieces by just having a woman look at you in a certain way. He had meant to state his intentions simply, then leave, but it wasn't working out that way at all.
“Don't leave,” she said again, and this time he could not avoid looking at her.
“What about Valois?” he managed. “Does he go?”
“I need him. To fight Ben Farley, I need all the strong men I can get. Have you heard that Farley has a gunman on his pay roll?”
If he had meant to quit the lease, he should have left at once. He never should have come to the dugout to explain, for now it was too late. He tried to keep his mind clear, but he kept remembering that first day on the lease when he and Rhea had been standing here just as they were now, and he had held her for a moment in his arms and nothing else had seemed to matter.
It was a dangerous thing to remember at a time like that. He should have been remembering that bank in Joplin, and Marshal Joe Dagget with the suspicious mind, and the hired killer that Farley had taken on his pay roll, but all he could think of was that one particular moment when he had held Rhea hard against him. He should have remembered Turk Valois' experiences in Bartlesville, and Zack Muller in his lonely grave outside of Tulsa, but it was no use.
Suddenly he reached out with both hands and held her by her shoulders. He felt a small shudder go through her but she did not try to back away. She did not look away nor did she make a sound when he pulled her to him; not even when he put his arms around her, held her roughly, forced her face back, and forced his mouth down on hers did she make any move to escape. She did nothing at all.
Grant felt the anger and brief violence go out of him. Guilt gnawed at him as he let her go, and he mumbled, “I'm sorry. I guess there was no call for that.”
“I learned long ago,” she said flatly, “that everything must be paid for in one way or another. I need your help—if this is your price, then I'll have to pay it.”
“I set no price!” Grant said harshly. “I said I'm sorry.”
“We all have a price.” And her voice was matter of fact and controlled. “My father is dead—I'll do whatever is necessary to see that Farley pays for that! But I need a man who's not afraid.”
“I hold no claim to bravery.”
But she seemed not to hear him. “Name your price,” she said, almost roughly. Then coolly, deliberately, she put her arms about his neck and drew him to her.
Abruptly, faintly sickened by his own thoughts, Grant broke her hold about his neck and shoved her roughly against the wall. For one long moment he stood glaring and angry, searching his conscience for some motive to justify his own actions. But there was only one motive, and Rhea knew it. He was in love with her, he wanted her— it was as simple as that. Without putting it into words, he had named his price and she had been ready to meet it.
Not until that moment did he realize what her father's death had meant to her. Shame lay cold in his belly and he shrank a little within himself as he jammed his hat down on his forehead and blundered up the steps of the dugout.
He went to the bunkhouse, glad to find it empty, and he sat for a long time on the edge of his folding cot cursing the day he had decided to try his hand at fanning. If it hadn't been for the farm and the trouble with the bank none of this would have happened; he would still be working on some fenced ranch in the Cherokee Nation, getting drunk every Saturday with nothing to worry about but a hangover the next morning. But there was no solution here to his present trouble and his shame. He
