Carla Kelly (24 page)

The Queen was warm, and only needed a few more sticks of wood to produce a moderate heat. She put a cast iron skillet on the range and added a small amount of lard, under Paul's directions.

“Just put them in and fry them,” he told her. “You can poke them around until they're a uniform brown.”

She only put in two. “Do'um all, sport,” Paul said.

“I have another idea. Let's just try two now.”

She moved them around the skillet until they were done, then put them on a cloth to drain.

“Just add a little salt, and maybe pepper, if you're feeling fancy,” he said.

When she finished, he popped one in his mouth, chewed, and swallowed. “Excellent, Darling. Your turn.”

She picked up the Rocky Mountain oyster and just stared at it. Paul watched her and grinned.

“Don't let me embarrass you, sport, but I haven't seen such a doubtful expression on your face since our first time together at the Callahan's, and remember how nicely that turned out.”

She laughed out loud and popped in the oyster.
Heavens, this is dreadful,
she thought.
Maybe if I just don't think about what it is, I'll brush through this
.
Still…
“It's not habit-forming, but I suppose if I were starving…”

“Four more to go.”

He reached for the oysters and she stopped him. “Nope.”

It was his turn to look dubious. “I'm the expert here.”

“Maybe you are,” she said in her sweetest voice, “but who's the cook?” As he watched, she got down a small bowl and found the flour. “What do cowboys enjoy most of all?” she asked, as she added flour and cracked an egg.

“My blushes, Julia,” he said. “What does that have to do with cooking?”

She let out an exasperated snort. “Fried food, you ninny! Would you add two cups of lard to that skillet?”

He did, and she added enough wood to produce a hot fire. She stirred the flour and egg mixture and added some canned milk and a little cornmeal for crunch. When a cube of bread browned and floated to the surface of the lard, she put the oysters in the flour mixture and coated them liberally. One by one, she dropped them into the lard, where they sizzled and popped.

“You could be on to something, sport,” Paul said, his gaze intent on the skillet.

“I can't help thinking how your sweethearts devoured those bear sign I made a few days ago.”

“When are they done?”

“When they float to the surface. I'll get some ketchup.”

She let them cool on the cloth, then salted each little golden nugget. She held the plate out to Paul. “Try that, cowboy.”

He did as she said, dipping one oyster in ketchup. He chewed and swallowed and such a light came into his eyes that Julia wanted to dance around the kitchen. “Do we have a secret weapon here?” she asked.

He nodded, unable to speak, and reached for two more. “My word, Julia.”

“Save one for me,” she said and dipped it in the ketchup. “Perfect.” She smiled at her husband. “Stick with me, cowboy.”

“That's a guarantee,” he said. “I am such an easy mark.”

“You are, indeed. Good thing I married you.”

“You will be the hit of the roundup.”

“I'll pass the greenhorn test?”

“Maybe.” He picked up her cook book. “Anything in here about uh… sonofagun stew?”

She shook her head, mystified. “Sonofagun stew?”

“I'm being polite, because there are ladies present. That'll be another trial. Basically, it's the insides of one poor little unfortunate calf. You can add one onion, if you're a fancy chef.”

“Good heavens,” she said and sat down with a thump. She rested her chin on her hand. “I'll probably throw up in that.”

Paul kissed the top of her head. “If you do, no one will ever know the difference.”

They left for the open range a week later, as the sun was rising. Julia rode beside Paul, with Matt in the wagon, his horse tied on behind. The wagon was piled with equipment and bedrolls, as well as canned peaches and tomatoes and a veritable mound of bread wrapped in waxed paper, Julia's personal contribution to the cow gather. The others rode beside the wagon, careful not to pass Paul.

“Range etiquette,” he told her. “I ride first.”

She was still dubious about leaving Charlotte, her cousin, and Kringle behind. “You needn't worry,” Paul assured her. “I have enough hands with me to gather my cattle, and I'd rather leave the lights burning on the Double Tipi.”

She had soaked for a long time in the tin tub that morning, knowing it was her last bath for a week. By the time Paul came in to shave, she was wrinkled and the water barely warm.“Darling, haven't you ever gone without a bath for any length of time?”

“I have not,” she had said, standing up and motioning for a towel, which he tossed her way. “I seem to recall that when you returned from the gather a year or so ago, you were pretty rank.”

Lathering his face, he had eyed her in the mirror as she toweled dry. “Be sure of this: no matter how gamey you get, you'll still smell better than all of us cowmen types put together.”

“That is devoutly to be desired,” she said and snapped her towel at him. They were a while getting back to business after that, but at least the hands were too polite to comment on the lateness of breakfast that morning. She hoped she had wiped all the shaving soap off her face before passing the biscuits.

“How far are we going?” she asked as they trotted along, then laughed. “I sound like Iris. She used to whine and ask ‘how long,’ as soon as Papa turned the corner from the house.”

He pointed north and west, through a gap in the hills surrounding the Double Tipi. “We'll be half a day getting there.”

“How much of that time are we on your land?”

“
Our
land. Probably three hours. I sent Doc ahead to stake us a good spot. This will be a bigger gather than usual, because I know many are still missing their livestock.” He smiled to himself. “This is where all my winter riding paid off, Darling, as much as I hated doing it. Most of my cattle are accounted for. We lost so little. We'll see a lot of reps from other outfits, checking brands and watching the babies.” He leaned over and set her Stetson on more level. “Keep the sun off your face and neck, sport.”

She touched the scar on her neck, remembering the salve in her blanket roll. “Why so many reps? I'm such a greenhorn.”

“The cows that scattered will likely have calved on open range or on other ranches where the fences were cut because of the fires. A branded cow will be followed by her cleanskin calf—that's a calf with no brand. Because mothers and kiddos pair up, the ranchers will know whose is whose, and brand accordingly. If they can't come in person, they send representatives.”

“Does anyone get into fights over that?” she asked.

“All the time. I've seen men shoot each other over a cow and calf dispute. Not a pleasant sight.”

“You don't ever wear a gun, Paul?”

“That just invites trouble. I keep it in my bedroll, though.” He looked down. “And my rifle's always there in the scabbard. Behave yourself, sport, so I don't have to get ugly with some range Romeo.”

She gave him such an arch look that he burst out laughing and startled Chief. “Do I have to swat you with my towel again?” she asked.

“Better not. Look where that led.”

Julia blushed and suddenly found a tumbleweed fascinating as it blew by in front of them. “You're fun, Paul, even in the bathing room,” she said finally, which made him look away this time, his shoulders shaking.

They stopped to noon in the shade of a cottonwood grove along the Laramie River, running high with the snowmelt. Julia brought out roast beef sandwiches with horseradish spread that she had made the day before, and pickles. Everyone was pleased with the Lemon Queens she produced from a tin labeled “lima beans,” an old trick she learned from her mother.

“Gents, do you realize that we eat better than any other outfit in at least southeast Wyoming?” Paul said, holding up his fourth Lemon Queen.

“Aye, Boss,” Matt said. “And are
you
aware just how many gents want to ride for your brand? When I'm in Gun Barrel or Wheatland, I get asked all the time if you're hiring.”

“I've heard it's a considerable number,” Paul replied. Julia smiled to hear the pride in his voice. “Maybe they like my bunkhouse.”

“I'm certain that's it,” Matt replied. “Pass the Lemon Queens. Mrs. Otto, did you bring along any of those chocolate covered cherries?”

“They're hiding in the tin marked ‘lard,’ so now you know my deepest secrets,” she said. “Better eat them now before they melt.”

There was a general rush to the wagon. “You spoil us,” Paul said, watching his men. “Should I still be paying your salary?”

“You do, Paul,” she said simply. “It's called marriage, and I'm in favor of it.”

The sun beat down, even if there was a cooling breeze. Paul made Julia put more salve on her neck. “You really don't want that to burn,” he said, his fingers gentle on her neck, saying more with his gesture than words.

“Tell me something about this tyrant cook at the gather,” she asked as they rode into the afternoon.

“Cookie Brown? He was a former slave in Georgia, I think. After the war, he and a lot of his kind were cut loose from plantations and started to drift. He somehow ended up with the Clyde Brothers Cattle Company, the first foreign consortium here.”

“Are they Scots?” Julia asked.

Paul nodded, and Julia couldn't overlook his grim expression. “You never met a tighter-fisted, meaner-spirited bunch.” He set his lips in a firm line. “After my father died, they tried to cheat me out of my land.”

“Good heavens! You would think they would want to help a fifteen-year-old boy,” she said, indignant.

“Not in my world, Darling. You're so tender. I was fair game, as far as they were concerned. Land is everything here.”

“It was
your
land, wasn't it?”

“Of course, but the Clyde boys wanted it. They intimidated in little ways: cut fences, spooked cattle, no hands willing to hire out for a boy.” He sighed, as if the memory was still too strong. “Dawes McLemore helped me until I could keep everything together myself. I was seventeen before I knew I wasn't going to be driven off. Dawes was my only friend, and he protected me. Rumor says he put a bullet in one of the Clydes, but Dawes never said and the Clydes weren't talking. I didn't ask, of course.”

“I probably would have cried myself to sleep every night,” Julia said frankly.

Paul gave her a wry look. “I did. Those were two long years.” He chuckled. “Almost as long as the six months we just endured.” He leaned toward her, and she breathed in a pleasant whiff of bay rum. “What were you doing at seventeen?”

She thought a moment. “Agonizing over algebra and pining away because the captain of the football team decided to take my best friend to homecoming and not me.”

“He was a drooling idiot,” Paul said mildly. “My pa scratched a hold in this land, and I've kept it and added on.” He looked into that distance she had no part of, then gave himself a little shake. “Cookie is tough too. Do what he wants, and you'll be fine. He'll have a tent set up for you, Alice Marlowe, and Elinore Cuddy, if she comes.”

“Can't I sleep with you?” she asked, lowering her voice.

“Certainly you may. I put enough blankets in my bed roll for both of us. It's out on the open prairie, Julia, with not a tent in sight.”

“I don't mind,” she said shyly. “You're my best guy.” He leaned closer. “No privacy, Darling. I'll give you a handshake and a kiss.”

“That'll do. We
really
don't want to scare the horses here.”

She heard and smelled the gathering almost before she saw it—cattle milling about and bawling, and above all that din, the sharp whistles of the cowboys.

“My goodness. How many cows are there?”

“Couple thousand. A lot of ours are fenced on our land already—I'm trying to keep my polled Herefords separate—but I have other cattle here. What happens is we'll separate our herds, settle the disputes, brand the calves, castrate most, and generally leave them on the open range to grow fat on this grass. I'm not shipping any to Chicago this summer, but I will in the fall, of course.” He gestured with his lips, Indian fashion. “And there is the famous Clyde Brothers Cattle Company chuck wagon. I'll introduce you to your worst nightmare for the next few days. Or your best friend. It'll depend on you.”

I'm on display
, Julia thought as she rode with her husband past cattle, horses, and cowmen, the dust rising in lazy puffs. She was too shy to look around. She forced herself not to put her hand to her neck and rode as tall as she could, chin up.

“Darling, you're the prettiest lady that has ever graced a roundup,” Paul told her as they rode knee to knee. “My stars, you look good on horseback.”

“Oh, Paul!”

“I am the envy of nations, and let me tell you, Darling, it feels pretty good.”

He's just saying that to bolster my courage
, she told herself, but couldn't help the real pride she felt, riding beside one of the best—no, the best—stockman in southeast Wyoming, the man who held her heart and soul in capable hands. She smiled at him. “You look pretty good on horseback too, cowboy.
I'm
the envy of nations.”