Winds of Wyoming (A Kate Neilson Novel) (11 page)

Kate lugged the heavy gate toward the fence, trying to watch the herd and the men at the same time. She wanted to see how they handled the distraught newborn. The calf wobbled away from them but then reversed again, obviously torn between staying with its mother and running for safety.

Arm in the air, Clint rotated a wide rope loop that suddenly snaked from his hand to slither under the calf’s feet and snare both back legs. He jerked the lariat, and the calf flipped onto its side. The bison hit the ground with a grunt.

Mike grabbed its front legs.

With the free end of the rope, Clint tied one front leg to the tethered back legs and sprang to his feet, hands high. “Fastest bison ropers in the West!”

Kate laughed. Maybe Wyoming men weren’t so bad after all. Maybe, just maybe she’d overreacted to the barn incident. She dropped the bottom of the pole into the loop, trying to not think about how much her hands hurt. With every ounce of strength she had, she set the pole upright and reached for the top wire.

Clint waved at her. “You don’t need to lock it up, Kate, unless you see bison headed your way. Just hang on a few minutes. Won’t take us long to load this critter.”

“Now you tell me.” She bit her lip when they tossed the calf onto the metal truck bed, thinking they could have at least put a blanket or a coat under it. But they were the ranchers. She was the ignorant city slicker.

The men latched the tailgate and looked around, scanning the herd. She followed their gaze. Only one cow with a slightly extended tail appeared interested in their activities.

They turned their attention to the dead bison, swatting with their hats at the flies that swarmed above her huge body. Kate couldn’t hear what they said as they examined a dark spot behind the cow’s shoulder, but she could see them shake their heads with disgust. So the buffalo had been shot, and smart-mouth Cyrus was wrong about crime only occurring in big cities.

She rested her forehead against the pole, wondering what Cyrus would say if he knew he worked with a real-life criminal. She straightened. No. She was
not
a criminal. Those days were behind her. But what if …? She stared across the pasture. What if she’d brought crime with her? Maybe Ramsey shot the buffalo. It was a crazy idea, but that could have been his way of getting back at Mike for running him off last night.

Mike stood. “Open up, Kate. We’re ready to drive out.”

Old Blue bounced by. Kate peeked at the calf. Mouth open and eyes so wide they were mostly white, the traumatized creature looked ready to hyperventilate.

Mike helped her close the gate. His shoulder against hers made her stomach quiver. She reminded herself, twice, that Tara had said she and Mike were almost engaged.

He pointed at a cow. “See the bison with the extended tail?”

She nodded.

“She sees us, she hears us. She smells us. The position of her tail says she’s interested in us but only mildly curious at the moment. The more irritated bison become, the more rigid and higher their tails get. If they’re really angry, their tails stand straight up. That’s when they’re the most dangerous, when they might charge a perceived enemy.”

“Do you think she’ll get mad when you remove the dead cow?”

“I don’t know if we’ll remove the cow or bury her. Depends on how long she’s been dead. But it’ll be at least a half hour before we return. The other cow will probably move on by then.”

Kate leaned against the tailgate studying the calf, which had found its breath and was wailing again. “Would it be okay if I pet him—or her?”

He smirked. “It’s a she. Go ahead. That’ll help get her used to humans.” He got into the truck. “Better have Mom make some phone calls.”

She stepped onto the running board for a better reach. The calf ogled her, bug-eyed, and cried even louder. She touched its leg, which made it tremble and twitch. She moved to the other side of the truck bed, where it couldn’t see her, and gently rubbed its side. This time, the calf didn’t react as violently to her touch.

She stroked its soft, rust-colored fur. “You’re going to be okay, little girl. We’ll get you some food.” The dusty-animal smell made her sneeze, but she muffled the sound in the crook of her elbow, for the calf’s sake.

Ignoring Clint’s amused expression, she listened to Mike radio his mom. Moments later, Laura radioed back to say the department had a deputy on duty not far from the ranch who’d be there pronto. Mike told her that he and Clint would wait for the deputy and she would drive the calf to the barn.

Kate tried not to react at the mention of an officer. She had nothing to hide, but with Ramsey in the area spreading rumors about her, she couldn’t be too cautious. “Should I drive the calf up there now? She must be really hungry.”

“First, I’ll help you get a feel for the gears. This truck has its touchy spots.” Mike stepped out of the cab, and Kate crawled inside.

He got in beside her, leaving the passenger door open. “Push the clutch in with your foot and grab the gearshift.”

She could barely touch the clutch with her toe. “This cab is a bit bigger than my Honda.”

He showed her how to move the seat forward.

She pressed the clutch and clasped the gearshift. He covered her hand with his.

Again, her insides quavered, despite the distraction of the pain in her palm.

“It’s probably the same pattern as your car. I’ll move you through it, beginning at first gear. Just hold the clutch solid and ride through the stubborn cogs.”

He pulled the knob toward them. Their arms moved together from first to second, second to third, third to fourth, and then reverse. Kate tried hard to concentrate, but his hand cradling hers made it hard for her to focus.

Mike sat back. “Now you try it.”

She felt her cheeks grow warm. Even though the pattern was similar, it felt different. Or maybe it was because he unsettled her. “Could we go through that one more time?”

With all the will power she could muster, she followed his lead and engaged each gear without grinding.

“Great.” He released her hand. “You’re on your own. See you at the ranch.” He started to get out, but stopped. “I’d better show you how to operate the radio, in case the calf gives you trouble … or you get a flat tire.”

She tried not to notice the happy flicker in her heart when he leaned close again. After he explained the CB and was about to get out of the truck, she touched his arm. “I have a question.”

“Shoot.”

“Do you think it would be all right—” She looked away. “This is kind of silly.”

“Why don’t you let me be the judge?”

She rubbed her fingertip over the hard rim of the steering wheel. “I was wondering if it would be okay to name the calf Trudy, after my dog, because of the reddish fur.”

His smile was gentle. “That’s fine with me, except …”

She waited.

“Except that baby bison mature quickly. No matter how much they’re around humans, they can never be truly tamed. In a few short months, that little calf will become big and dangerous. I’d hate for you to get hurt or become attached to her then discover she’s not much of a pet.”

“That’s really kind of you.” It was hard to breathe with him so close. “I understand she’ll eventually have to be returned to the herd to eat grass or hay or whatever buffalo eat.”

The calf moaned, even louder than before.

He laughed. “Shouldn’t have mentioned food.” He stepped out and closed the door. Before she started the engine, he rested his forearm on the window frame. “Mom is an old hand at bottle feeding, whether it’s puppies or kittens or colts or calves. And she names them all. Even if I objected to naming this one, she’d overrule me, so go for it.”

Kate drove down the hill in first gear to keep from jostling the calf. Mike was considerate and caring. Tara seemed wrong for him. But she didn’t know either person very well. At the bottom of the hill, she carefully edged the truck onto the road one wheel at a time and turned toward the ranch headquarters.

Hearing no complaints from the calf, she shifted gears and picked up speed. Then there was Clint. She grinned, thinking of the ranch foreman’s quick, easy smile and his crazy sense of humor. She navigated a mud hole. It had been a long time since she’d met a considerate man. But she couldn’t fall for every decent guy she encountered outside prison gates.

***

Mike rode with Clint down to the road to wait for the deputy. When they got out of the truck, Clint dropped the tailgate and sat on it. Mike stood. Hands in his pockets, he stared at the herd. “Remember, Clint, when I told you I wanted to start selling some of the cows for breeding stock and others for meat, hides, skulls and horns?”

Clint nodded.

“And that we’re offering guests an opportunity to shoot cows this summer, for a price?”

“Yeah.”

Mike kicked a pine cone. That was the plan, if he could stomach it. He’d hunted with his dad for years and shot his share of antelope, deer and elk—even a moose. But somehow that was different than watching guests kill animals he’d tended.

He looked up. “To be honest, Clint, I hate to do it, but the hunts will be a big boost to the ranch’s income and list of offerings—another enticement for tourists to choose the WP as their vacation destination.”

Sheesh, he sounded like a brochure. But increasing the income from the herd would prove to his mom and to himself that bison had been a wise investment of ranch money. Unlike some ranches, theirs broke even or made a small profit every year. Even so, buffalo hunts had the potential to create a nest egg for the lean years. Maybe even his mom’s retirement.

“You told me about the ad.” Cliff folded his arms. “Got any takers yet?”

“Not yet. But what if whoever shot that cow returns to shoot another one? And another? And what if dozens of people decide to take us up on our offer?” He exhaled. “Maybe I’m getting the cart before the horse, but I’m wondering if we’ll have a herd left by September.” He groaned. “Then there’s hunting season …”

***

Hunkered over a beer in the Wild Bunch Saloon, Jerry Ramsey sucked on a cigarette and gazed at the bear head mounted above the next booth. After he’d posted bail and retrieved his truck keys, he’d driven directly from Copperville to Encampment. Even though he’d only been in Copperville four days, he couldn’t stand the redneck town a minute longer. The sooner he got Neilson back to civilization, the better. But his court date was seven weeks away, thanks to a judge who was supposedly recuperating from surgery. Probably brain surgery, if he was as stupid as the police chief.

He clenched his jaw, bile rising in his throat at the memory of Rhoades’ mockery after he’d told him his officers manhandled him in the bar. When the chief finally stopped laughing, he’d leaned forward, hands clasped on his desktop. “Tell that to the judge, Ramsey. We’ve got witnesses who say you did all the damage—to the bar and to yourself—including thumping your ugly mug on the corner of the table you broke. After you assaulted the barmaid.”

Ramsey downed a long swig of the beer. The redhead didn’t see it that way. Maybe he should get a lawyer who’d ask her to be a defense witness. She’d be good.
Real
good.

The chief had told him to
stick around
. “We like to keep our eyes on losers, including former correctional officers fired for misconduct.” He’d then proceeded to open a desk drawer and pull out a .45 pistol. “Good thing you have a concealed carry permit for this piece. Otherwise, you’d be facing federal charges for crossing state lines with it.” He handed the gun to Ramsey but held tight when he tried to take it. “One false move, and you’ll never see this again. Get my drift?”

Ramsey slammed the mug onto the table and glared at the bear. Things weren’t going the way he’d planned. The cops were on his case, and Neilson could slip through his fingers if he wasn’t careful. Maybe he’d give that Sharon or Taron, or whatever her name was, a call.

He tracked a lone car as it passed by the front window of the saloon. He wouldn’t be in this mess if he’d taken Neilson when he had the chance. He should nab her now and drive to Mexico, where Rhoades and his breed couldn’t touch them. But he didn’t want to be stuck in a foreign country with a bunch of funny-talking dimwits the rest of his life.

Plus, he had to be careful with Neilson. She had a nasty streak. Good thing he’d packed a couple vials of the psychiatric drugs they’d used at Patterson to control violent inmates. Could come in handy … He frowned. Unless the cops stole them. He touched a drop of beer that had splattered onto the table and licked the finger. He’d have to check the secret compartment he’d welded into the toolbox.

Raising his empty bottle, he caught the attention of the bartender, who was visiting with a barmaid behind the massive antique bar. The man motioned toward Ramsey, and the young woman walked over to his table. She wore denim shorts and a tee-shirt with “Wild Bunch Saloon” printed above a black-and-white tintype of five men wearing bowler hats.

She’d already told him the men were some of the most famous outlaws in the days when the West was still wild, members of Butch Cassidy’s Wild Bunch gang. Cassidy, sporting a mustache above a slight smirk, was pictured alone on the back. Ramsey wished he’d known him. Butch Cassidy was his kind of man.

“Can I get you another drink? Some hot wings?”

Through the smoke rising from his ashtray, he looked the barmaid up and down. Ignoring the look of distaste on her face, he dug money from his shirt pocket. “Two more of the same.”

She swiveled and strode back to the bar.

Ramsey gawked at her backside. “I hate to see you go, baby,” he muttered. “But I love to watch you leave.” He belched and tapped his cigarette ashes into the aluminum ashtray. Encampment had some cabins for rent. Should he stay there? Or should he get a room at the motel in Copperville, no matter how much he despised the hick town?

Encampment was twenty-five winding mountain miles from the Whispering Pines. Copperville was eighteen. Made sense to be close enough to keep an eye on Neilson. Even if he’d have to drive to Encampment for a drink. He wasn’t about to waste any more money at Bogie’s Bar.