Capture the Sun (Cheyenne Series) (6 page)

      
After a grinding five days on the train, they were forced to resort to a stagecoach for the last days of the journey into Montana. The rails had not been laid that far yet. Baths in wayside inns were crude, skimpy affairs at best. The beds were lumpy and frequently inhabited by lice and other even less appealing creatures. After two weeks on the road, her body was abused and sore, her mind numb.

      
In the past few weeks Carrie had taken in more than her sheltered eighteen years allowed her to assimilate. The vast distances of the Dakotas awed, and cowed her secure Midwestern sensibilities. At the far western edge of the territory the jagged peaks of the Black Hills stood like` sentinels defying invaders. This was the sacred medicine land of Sioux and Cheyenne, Mandan and Blackfoot. Its wild stark beauty both frightened her and called to her, as if from some strange, long-forgotten dream. She shivered uneasily as she looked out the window, wishing they were safely at the Circle S.
At least I'll be safe from savage red Indians there,
she thought, trying to find some consolation in her plight.

* * * *

      
The night they arrived in Miles City, Carrie was too exhausted to even notice the bustling little cow town. Noah helped her from the coach and headed straight for the Excelsior Hotel, where he'd wired ahead for rooms. The young clerk's eyes widened in surprise at Mr. Sinclair's beautiful wife, obviously an easterner and obviously much younger than the cattle baron. No one in town had been told that Mr. Sinclair was getting married while he was in St. Louis. Respectfully the clerk, Jubal Akin, led them to the best room in the house, holding his curiosity at bay. Noah was too tired to take her that night. Carrie was grateful, and they both slept soundly.

      
The next morning, while Noah and Carrie were finishing breakfast in the hotel dining room, a tall, lanky man with leathery, dark skin and a startling shock of snowy-white hair ambled gracefully toward their table. He was dressed in range gear, expensive but well worn, and carried a lethal-looking gun on his hip. When Noah saw him, he motioned curtly for the stranger to approach their table. “Frank, figured you'd be here right on the dime.”

      
The thin man's long, callused hand grasped Noah's outstretched one, and his bright blue eyes crinkled at the corners. “I had ta ride out afore th' nighthawks come in ta git here on th' dime.” He let out a chuckle, and the toothy smile he gave Carrie made a startling white slash in his dark, angular face.

      
Carrie never had seen such a dazzling set of teeth. Frank gave his full attention to the beautiful young woman seated at the table, almost ignoring Noah. Flourishing his hat in one hand, he bowed in a rough facsimile of chivalry.

      
“Ma'am, welcome ta Circle S country.” His wide smile was infectious, and Carrie found herself returning it.

      
“This is my general foreman, Frank Lowery, Carrie. Frank, meet·my bride, Mrs. Sinclair from St. Louis.” Possessively, Noah rested his hand on her shoulder as he made the introductions.

      
Forgetting the weight of his grip, Carrie found herself drawn to her husband's contemporary. Unlike the majority of people on their long journey who were openly curious about the May-December honeymooners, Frank's shrewd but kindly gaze reassured her and asked no questions.

      
As she rode on the bumpy supply wagon to the Circle S, Carrie listened attentively while Noah and Frank discussed the operation of the ranch. Before they left town, Frank and four Circle S hands loaded up the big rig with what seemed to Carrie enough food staples and seeds to supply an army garrison. One of the young cowboys, Hank Allen, was assigned to drive the wagon on which Carrie was a passenger. Noah and Frank rode close alongside and the other three men took up the rear. Were they guards? Nervously she asked the shy youth who drove if there was any danger from Indians.

      
He grinned. “Nope, ma'am. Nearest Cheyennes is over ‘cross th' basin now. They move around a mite, but they's peaceful. Onliest one's givin' trouble lately is Sioux, and they's north mostly, in Canady.”

      
His answer, rather than reassuring Carrie, alarmed her, since it was obvious the territory was swarming with various tribes, all of them in a state of perpetual migration. I
f only Montana were not so big,
Carrie thought in awe. The limitless sky stretched off the far horizons in every direction, its blinding azure melded into the fresh-kissed green of the prairie grasslands. There seemed no shelter, no place to hide in the thin clear air of the high plains. It was utterly alien to Carrie, who had been brought up in the mud-rich humidity of the Mississippi River Basin. The vegetation here was as different from Missouri as the topography. Buffalo grass grew tall and wild, incredibly thick and hearty despite the extremes of heat and cold, drought and flood. Even the sparse outcroppings of coniferous trees stretching to reach the dome of heaven were taller and starker than those back home. It seemed as if everything in nature here was larger than life, as if all the hilly, gentle greenery of the lower Midwest was merely pretty stage scenery compared to the titan landscape of Montana.

      
Bunches of fat cattle grazed randomly, sprinkled across the undulating plains. Carrie noticed that they were short-horned and thickly built, not at all like the wild, stilt-legged longhorns she had seen pictured in books. She decided to put her feelings of misgiving aside and learn something of her new home. “Are these cattle longhorns? They don't look like the drawings in my books.”

      
Hank turned to her and grinned. “No, ma'am, them's scraggeldy tough critters, pure mean, 'n' all horns 'n' tails. Texas's where they run. Montana cattlemen mostly raise good shorthorn breedin' stock, lots o' it from Oregon, some from as fer east as Ohio.”

      
“I've never seen so many herds of cows, all running loose. There must be a lot of ranchers around here, although I've not seen a barn or house since we left Miles City.” Carrie scanned the horizon. ‘‘How soon until we reach Circle S land?”

      
Hank looked mildly surprised, then considered that she was a tenderfoot. “Been on it fer th' past couple o' hours, ma'am. All them cows is Mr. Noah's. Hisn's th' biggest spread in th' eastern part o' Montana Territory. We'll be at th' big house by sundown, never fret. Guess yore a tad tired from all this bumpin' ‘round. A horse's a lot easier than this hard seat.”.

      
Carrie flushed, feeling as out of place as a carpetbagger at a cotillion. “I'm afraid I'm consigned to the hard wooden seat, at least for now. I never learned to ride a horse.”

      
If she had told the boy she never learned to walk, she couldn't have produced more amazement. Lordy, what a greenhorn the boss had brought west! But then again, she was so nice and pretty, Hank thought he would purely love to teach her to ride, yessiree.

      
When they arrived at the main ranch house toward evening, Carrie was much surprised to see how large and handsome it was. Even Noah's boasting had not prepared her for this gleaming whitewashed structure. The house contained at least a dozen rooms, she guessed as her eyes spanned the wide two-story porch that ringed the front and both sides. Rustling aspens and oaks shaded the beautiful structure from the warm spring sun.

      
Both Noah and Frank watched Carrie's face. Frank was pleased that the quiet, sad young woman liked her new home. He sensed something was amiss between her and his employer, but was too discreet to ask. Noah's chest swelled with pride for the grandeur of the edifice to which he brought his bride.

      
“If yew like th' outside, jist wait till yew git a eyeful o' th' inside!” Frank said as he dismounted and assisted Carrie down.

      
Still stunned by the elegance of the house in the midst of such primitive wilderness, Carrie nodded, anxious to see what lay within.

      
Noah appeared quickly by her side to take her arm and usher her up the wide front steps onto the deep porch and then in the front door. The interior was as Frank had intimated—startlingly beautiful. Thick Turkish rugs lay on the polished hardwood floors in the long entry hall. Pale blue-and-gold French wallpaper blended in with the deeper colors of the carpet. Off to the left, beyond a gleaming dark oak door, left partly ajar, lay the front parlor with delicate Queen Anne furniture. To the right was the formal dining room, dominated by a long dark oak table and carved sideboard. Crystal candlesticks were set with fat honey-colored candles on both massive pieces of furniture. A huge glass-faced breakfront full of delicate china was barely visible on the far wall. Carrie had thought Hiram and Patience's house in St. Louis grand! By comparison with this, it was merely vulgar.

      
Immediately Carrie knew a woman had decorated this place. But who? Whoever, she had exquisite and expensive taste.

      
Noah let Carrie stand in awe for a brief moment and then began to speak. “You'll want the grand tour, I'm sure, after we see if the staff is prepared for us.”

      
Before he could say more, a reedy, tall woman dressed severely in brown appeared at the end of the long hall. Her face was pinched and angular, and her dark gray-streaked hair was pulled tightly into a knot on top of her head, as if the tightly pinned hairdo could tauten up the lines of age in her harsh face. She did not smile as she welcomed her employer and his bride.

      
“This is Mrs. Thorndyke, my housekeeper. You'll find her a trusted and invaluable paragon of many skills. She keeps all the domestic workers doing their jobs efficiently. Mrs. Thorndyke, my wife.”

      
“I'm pleased to welcome you to the Circle S, Mrs. Sinclair.” Her flat tone of voice and cold gray eyes seemed to be anything but pleased or welcoming.

      
Carrie instantly sensed she had an enemy, but had no idea why. Before she could frame a reply, the housekeeper dismissed her from her attention and turned to Noah with a blaze of anger in her eyes. “You should know, Mr. Noah,
he
is back. Rode in only minutes before you.”

      
Noah paled and then swore in amazement. “Damn, if I didn't think the son of a bitch was dead down in the Nations! Where is he now, Mathilda?”

      
“I'm not sure. You know how quiet and secretive he is. I guess he went up to his old room.”

      
Carrie observed the exchange silently, trying to make sense of it. Before she could glean anything, Noah turned to her abruptly.

      
“Go and make your own inspection of the downstairs, Carrie. I have to attend to this first. Then I'll join you.” With that he began to climb the steep, thickly carpeted

steps at the side of the hall while Mathilda Thorndyke vanished like a specter.

      
Well, since I'm deserted, I will look on my own,
she thought, glad to be free of the hostile older woman. As if Noah wasn't enough to adjust to, she was also to be faced with a phalanx of loyal and jealous servants! As she stepped into the parlor, Carrie was once more enchanted by the lovely, silk damask chairs and elegant sofa. “I wouldn't have chosen blue, but it is tastefully done,” she murmured aloud to herself, running one hand along the back of a carved rosewood chair beside the heavy marble mantel.

      
“You're right, blue doesn't suit you, but Lola was blond, and she picked the color.”

      
Carrie gasped at the low, gravelly voice that spoke so softly behind her. She whirled to confront a man standing in the big oak doorway. He was very tall, nearly filling the high doorframe as he lounged negligently against the sash for a minute, then uncoiled to glide silently into the room.

      
At once she knew this stranger was the “he” Noah and Mrs. Thorndyke spoke of. He was very dark-skinned, with shoulder-length blue-black hair that fell across his forehead, shadowing deep-set jet eyes and thick black brows. His cheekbones were high and his nose long and straight with full, handsomely sculpted lips beneath. It was an arresting face, startlingly handsome when he smiled, revealing straight white teeth. Yet there was something alien about the face, about him.
 

      
Carrie's eyes quickly dropped to his clothes. He wore an elaborately fringed buckskin shirt, loosely laced across a wide expanse of chest with thick black hair curling through the openings. His long legs were encased in tight breeches of the same soft tan leather, and on his feet he wore moccasins. On one slim hip a low-slung gun hung, and on the other a wicked-looking knife was sheathed. It was the sort of outfit she'd seen trappers and rivermen wear on her westward journey. The expensive, exotic-looking gold and silver rings on his hands were unique, however. He was different from any man she had ever met—untamed, barbarous looking. Yes, barbarically handsome, like a savage—an Indian! She took a step backward as he took a step forward.

      
“Who—who are you?” She hated the frightened squeak in her voice that made her appear juvenile. He took another couple of measured steps toward her, that savage smile once again in place as his gleaming black eyes perused her.

      
God, she is a fetching little bitch with a beautifully molded body and flashing green eyes.
The hair was the thing, thought—like living flame surrounding that delicate , pale face. Young, not even out of her teens. Noah had surely robbed the cradle this time. Then he reconsidered and wondered who had done the robbing,
I’ll just bet she's got an eyeful of this place already. Probably knows what the silver's worth.

      
“Who are
you
?” he asked aloud, throwing her question back at her although he'd already heard from Feliz that Noah was bringing a new bride with him from St. Louis.