The Cowboy's Orphan Bride. Lauri Robinson

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      Garth twisted in his saddle to watch a cowboy ride through the haze of dust. The herd was anxious to get moving this morning, butting into one another as they found their place to start marching north. Churned up by thousands of hooves, the dirt stung his eyes as it swirled in the wind. He used the back of one hand to wipe his lips before asking, “What?”

      One of the drovers, Martie, Brad Martie, who should be riding drag, rode up beside him, and shifted the reins from his left hand to his right and back again.

      Twisting the tension in his neck, Garth cursed beneath his breath. He hated men who fidgeted almost as much as he hated whiners. Calling Brad a man was stretching it. The red fuzz on Brad’s chin said he wasn’t much more than a kid. Having just completed a ride from the rear to the head of the herd, doing a final check before heading out, Garth had already eaten enough dust. He gestured for Brad to follow him a short distance away from the cattle before he repeated, “What?”

      “A heifer let loose.”

      Garth tipped back his hat and wiped away a band of sweat before it dripped into his eyes. The sun was hot today, and the cattle would need water come evening. Hence their excitement to get going. A cow could smell water miles away. “Which one?” he asked.

      Switching hands on the reins again, Brad answered, “The big white-faced one.”

      Garth cursed beneath his breath. He was hoping that one would make it to Dodge. In truth, he hoped they all would make it to Dodge. They couldn’t be more than four, maybe five days out. That heifer was a fine specimen and her calf would have brought good money. He’d hauled a calf in the chuck wagon before, for a day or two. Five was too long. The separation would be too much on the cow, and the calf could never keep up on its own. Not only would it slow down its mother, they both would easily become trampled by the others. He felt the loss of every cow, and didn’t like it, but there were plenty of things about a drive that weren’t easy. The loss of any life was the worst, but he couldn’t jeopardize the herd or a man’s life over one calf. His stomach clenched, but still he ordered, “Shoot the calf.”

      The revulsion that rippled across the young man’s face pulled Garth’s jaw so tight his back teeth clenched.

      “Couldn’t we find a sodbuster and give it to them like we did down south?” Brad asked, with a goodly portion of hope lacing his young voice.

      “No,” Garth said. “I don’t have time to roam the countryside searching for sodbusters.” The sorrow on Brad’s face reminded him of years ago, when he’d been fourteen and shipped West with a trainload of sad-eyed, snot-nosed kids. They hadn’t all been snot-nosed. Not Bridgette Banks. She’d been the one wiping everyone else’s noses. Taking care of everyone else. That had been her. And of all the things he’d tried to forget about his life back then, she was still the hardest. For all his efforts, he just couldn’t erase her from his mind.

      It had been years, but he’d bet his best horse she was still as cute as she’d been back then. He’d yet to see a pair of eyes as blue as hers. He’d bet, too, that her feathery blond hair would still catch in the corner of her mouth when she spouted off over some infraction or another. Though she’d looked sweet and angelic, she’d had the mouth of a New York orphan. He’d appreciated that. Others hadn’t. Especially not Mrs. Killgrove.

      He hoped the family that had adopted her had treated her well over the years. She deserved that. That’s all she’d ever wanted. A family. A home. A place she could call her own and people to love. She’d still been on the train when he’d been sold. That’s what it had been. An auction not so unlike the old slavery traditions, except there was no money exchanged for the boys, only promises of providing food and shelter by bidders who didn’t want a child, but a worker. One they didn’t have to pay.

      Pulled back to the present by mooing cows, Garth looked at Brad while gesturing toward the cattle. “See that herd? They haven’t had water in two days. That’s my job today, to find water, not sodbusters. If I don’t find water, none of us will sleep tonight. We’ll all be riding guard, hoping they don’t stampede.”

      Brad nodded, but didn’t look convinced.

      Garth held his temper in order to say, “We gave those calves down south to Indians so they’d let us pass through their territory without any issues. A sodbuster would need to have a cow that would let that calf nurse, and that’s not easy.” Cows didn’t take to orphans any better than humans did. Flustered by having to give a drover a school lesson, Garth spun his horse around. “Shoot it.”

      He kneed his horse into a run, and didn’t let it slow until the dust was well behind them. The thought of ordering Brad to put down that calf reminded him of his first drive. He’d been fifteen, and had been assigned to ride drag the entire trip. Afterward he’d sworn that would be the last time. He’d taken it upon himself to learn what it took to be a trail boss, the good and the bad. Putting down that calf was the bad, as was doing the work of two men when he was a man short. That, being a man short, unfortunately, had happened more often than he’d liked over the years. There were just too many men out there who had signed on thinking a trail drive was little more than a stroll to church on Sunday. He’d never regretted a one that had left his employ. If you couldn’t do what had to be done, you’d never amount to anything. That was his motto. Being in a saddle for sixteen hours a day wasn’t unreasonable, and he let go any man who thought otherwise.

      Not a one of the men he’d fired had stolen from him. Other trail bosses sometimes discovered men had taken off with a horse from the outfit’s remuda after being fired. He didn’t. He laid down the law on exactly how a thief would be dealt with from the day he hired a man, as well as plenty of other expectations. He lived by the rules he set as strongly as he laid them out.

      Despite what some liar in New York had said all those years ago, he’d been honest his entire life, and expected as much from others.

      There were fifteen men in his outfit, not counting himself, JoJo—the best trail cook God ever gave a frying pan to—and Bat, JoJo’s helper. While riding alongside the herd, even as his thoughts roamed, Garth counted heads. Human ones. He hadn’t lost a single hand on this trip, and was more than relieved about that. He was pleased, too, and would be the first to admit it took a lot to please him.

      Satisfied with the number of men he’d counted and confident the cattle were moving at a solid pace, Garth forced himself to put the calf out of his mind and rode past the point riders to catch up with JoJo.

      The chuck wagon always traveled a few miles ahead of the herd, and as Garth rode, the calf crossed his mind again. Even if he found a sodbuster to take it, the calf wouldn’t have much of a chance. Orphans as a whole didn’t stand much of a chance. He was reminded of that every time he traveled north into Kansas.

      If the orphanage hadn’t taught him that, the farmer who’d taken him off the train had. He’d spent over a month with Orson Reins before deciding he’d had enough. Orson had said from the moment Garth had arrived at his farm that you could take a boy off the street, but the only way to take the street out of the boy was with a whip. When Orson had broken out his whip again, something had snapped inside Garth and he’d wrestled the whip out of Orson’s hands and left.

      He’d carried that whip with him for five years, until one night when he’d burned it, concluding his past was well and gone. He was never going back, so there was no need to hold on to any reminders of his past.

      “Heading out, Boss?” JoJo shouted above the rattling of his chuck wagon.

      Garth caught СКАЧАТЬ