The Cowboy's Orphan Bride Page 9

  They were to him.

  Disarray surrounded him. Cattle running in all directions, shouts, bawls and gunshots as his men fired bullets into the ground near the cattle’s hooves in order to turn them back into the herd. If they could get the cows gathered close, they’d lose their momentum and the stampede would cease. Garth fired his pistol into the ground too, turning cattle about while making sure he wasn’t caught between any. Ending up in the middle of the stampede was a death wish for any cowboy.

  Dust stung his eyes and the smell of dung burned his nose. When riled cattle squirted themselves, each other, horses and cowboys. Slimy muck covered his britches and his muscles burned from holding his seat as he steered his horse left and right.

  The battle was fierce, that of man against cow, and black emotions filled him as he couldn’t make out more than a couple of his men. His mind flashed scenes of him returning to Texas without one or more of them, how it would be up to him to tell their families what had happened. He’d had to do that once before. It had been unpleasant, and had filled him with a sense of shame and failure.

  He’d vowed that would never happen again. “They’re turning in!” he shouted to no one in particular, hoping whoever heard would be renewed at the idea the stampede would soon end. “They’re turning in!”

  As if saying it aloud made it true, the mayhem slowed. The bawling dulled into snorts and moos. “Keep ’em moving, boys!” Garth shouted. Letting up now could reignite the stampede. “Keep ’em moving!”

  Garth waited until the cattle were unified, moving as one massive dark cloud across the land, and until the air had lost the tense heaviness it had held earlier before he shouted again, “Tell someone you’re alive, boys! Your momma wants to know!”

  He listened as faint shouts grew louder. Each man not only shouted their name, but the names of the others near them in order for all names to make the full circle of the herd. It wasn’t until he’d heard the name of every man, all fifteen of them, that Garth let out a sigh of relief, but there was no time for rejoicing.

  Taking it slow so as not to disturb the calm, Garth started searching for one of the two men who’d been on night watch. Upon encountering Gil, he asked, “What happened? You see anything?”

  “No, sir,” Gil answered. “Even ole’ Hickory was settled in for the night when all hell broke loose. Trace was on the other end, but I ain’t seen him since it started.”

  Garth nodded and continued on his route. Hickory had been a cow too stubborn for his own good when they’d started out and Gil had taken extra caution with the steer by sewing its eyes closed so it had no choice but to follow along. By the time the thread had rotted away, Hickory had practically become Gil’s pet.

  The sky was turning pink, and as Garth rode past the others, he told them to get comfortable because it was going to be a long day. There wasn’t a grumble among them. They already knew the opportunity for sleep had long passed.

  Trace, a well-seasoned cowboy who’d been on several drives, was bringing up the rear, shooing in a stray by slapping his hat against one knee.

  “Any idea what happened?” Garth asked.

  “No,” Trace answered. “I was halfway through a rotation when I heard some commotion behind me. Next thing I knew, cows were going in every direction.”

  “You think we lost any?”

  “Won’t know until we get a bit more daylight, but I’ve seen most of mine.”

  Garth nodded. The men had been with these cattle for the past three months and knew them by sight and sound. Just as Gil had Hickory, the others had singled out specific cows. Some because the cow had needed a strong hand or a gentle shove, others because they just liked specific critters for one reason or another. “Have you seen Drake? I’ll take him with me to have a look around.”

  Trace gestured behind him. “His name came from back there.”

  “Keep ’em moving,” Garth said. “We’ll be in Dodge before dark.”

  “I’ll be glad about that,” Trace answered. “Damn glad.”

  “Start a head count as soon as the sun comes up,” Garth said as he sent his horse onward to find Drake. Not only a good cowboy, Drake could tell which type of critter—four-legged or two—had stepped on a blade of grass and how long ago. He’d also been the first man Garth had hired years ago for Malcolm and then last year for himself.

  Garth and Drake didn’t say a word when they met up a short time later, they just started riding south, back to where the stampede had started.

  Chapter Nine

  Her plan had flaws. Several of them. Which was what usually happened when one didn’t think things through—that’s what Garth used to tell her. Bridgette had sure done a lot of thinking, but just now she concluded that perhaps she hadn’t thought hard enough about the right things. Her thoughts had included Dodge and Garth. Mainly Garth. Rather than thinking about how wonderful it would be to show him she could get along without him as well as he could without her, she should have thought about how she was going to do that once she got there.

  Revenge certainly was a double-edged sword. But the more she’d thought about all those years of waiting for him, the angrier she’d become. She wanted a life of her own, and she was going to get it.

  Except that hadn’t worked out very well so far either. This was not what she’d expected.

  There weren’t any women running naked down the streets, though you couldn’t walk down Front Street without coming across what Bridgette thought of as the type of woman who might. More important, not a single thing cost less than two bits in Dodge. Not a spool of thread or a needle, and certainly not a meal or lodging. All that meant the meager amount of coins she’d had left after paying for the stage that had deposited her in the middle of town three days ago were not going to last long. Already hadn’t.

  The fact she needed to keep her precise location as secret as possible added to her dilemma. By now Dr. Rodgers would know she hadn’t gone to Rose Canton’s place as she’d told Mrs. Rodgers she would when carrying her bag out the front door. Bridgette held no misconceptions that Dr. and Mrs. Rodgers would come looking for her because they were worried about her. They’d taken her in nine years ago because Shelia had been born only a few months before and taking care of the baby had been too strenuous for Mrs. Rodgers. Upon her entrance into the big house, though it had been quite late, Mrs. Rodgers had told her the baby was now Bridgette’s responsibility. I haven’t had a full night’s sleep since she was born, Mrs. Rodgers had said. See that I do tonight.

  Bridgette had seen to Shelia that night, and for the next three years. She hadn’t minded. Though she’d always wanted her own family, she hadn’t planned on being adopted in order to get it. Garth had been her family. Their pretend marriage had made it so. Even back then her plan had simply been to wait for his arrival and then, together, they’d start living their lives. The life she always wanted. Her role as nursemaid had seemed a fine way to fill the time, and she’d taken care to do an excellent job.

  That was no longer her plan. To wait on him. That plan had been as flawed as this one.

  She glanced around the windowless room and couldn’t help but sigh and wonder how she’d ever manage to get out of this pickle.

  Her first day in Dodge, while contemplating the prices for food and lodging as well as the idea of Dr. Rodgers sending someone to find her, she’d quite accidently acquired accommodations here. It certainly was a place no one would look for her, and a place where she could barter for room and board.

  Staring at the small cot, she sighed again.

  It had all come about respectfully enough. She’d merely been walking along the boardwalk when a young girl looking for a doctor had bumped into her. Upon the girl’s pleading, Bridgette had followed her to the Crystal Palace. The house was far from being a palace and there wasn’t a piece of crystal to be found, but the young
woman whose blood had been soaking through into the straw mattress had indeed been in need of medical help.

  The infant had already been miscarried, but Michelle, the ill woman, had been close to losing too much blood to survive by the time Bridgette had arrived. After packing Michelle with gauze, Bridgette had propped the foot of the bed up on blocks to stop the blood from draining out of Michelle, and hoped it would work. Several frightening hours had passed before the bleeding had become manageable, and now, two days later, Michelle was no longer in danger of dying. Not from the miscarriage, but her profession could very well serve that ultimate consequence. The life of a soiled dove was not one to be envious of.

  Stifling a yawn, Bridgette was too tired to care who was or wasn’t happy. She pulled the sheet off the cot, wadded it into a bundle and tossed it in the basket. The small room she’d been assigned was off the kitchen, and a bit crowded considering it housed the large brass tub the doves used for bathing. A cot had been situated in the corner, both for her to sleep on and to perform examinations on each and every girl working at the Crystal Palace.

  Bridgette washed her hands with the strong-smelling lye soap before taking down a clean sheet from the shelf and laying it over the mattress. Though lumpy and well-worn, the cot, now covered in a clean sheet, was inviting. The days here were long, but the nights were longer, and she needed to catch a few hours of sleep while she could.

  Willow, no last name, just Willow, prided herself upon being the owner of the Crystal Palace, and had hired Bridgette even before she’d declared Michelle would survive. Dodge had several doctors, Willow had explained, and they were willing to come to the palace when called, however, the prices they charged were far beyond what the girls could afford.

  Letting out a long sigh as she lay down, Bridgette closed her eyes. The music from the parlor made the wall behind her rumble, but it wouldn’t bother her for long. She’d quickly learned which noises to sleep through and which ones meant trouble.

  Besides taking care of Michelle, she’d spent the last two days examining every one of Willow’s girls. Earning her keep had taken on a new meaning in a very short time. She’d mixed up douches, applied cottonwood ointment to all sorts of rashes and ailments and even stitched up Ellen’s finger when the girl had sliced it open. All for the price of this tiny room and three meals a day.

  Willow had said Bridgette could work on the side, to earn actual cash money, if she wanted. Appalled, for she knew exactly the type of work Willow had referred to, yet, not having any other options, Bridgette had said she wouldn’t be working on the side, or staying long, that she was only in Dodge to meet her husband.

  On impulse, that’s when she’d done it. Called herself Mrs. McCain.

  There had been several reasons for saying what she had, and at the time, they’d seemed perfectly sensible.

  Yawning, she rubbed the back of her neck. It wasn’t until times like now, when she lay down and her mind slowed that she thought about what she’d done and the repercussions she’d face eventually.

  Right now, she didn’t even care about them. She had to catch a bit of sleep while the girls were all busy. Dressed in their finery that left plenty of skin showing, the girls were all outside, waving and coaxing any man walking or riding by to enter the parlor where the music played and the drinks flowed. A trainload of stock buyers had arrived yesterday, and every business providing the same services as the Crystal Palace vied to keep those men happy until the cowboys started to arrive—which would be any day.

  * * *

  Dirty, tired and hungry, Garth was in no mood to stand around any longer. He’d been here almost an hour and the yard agent had yet to arrive. His men hadn’t slept in almost forty-eight hours, and as it stood, it would be good and dark by the time they closed the gate on his last cow. He stormed back into the stockyard office, not caring how the glass rattled when the door banged against the wall. “My boys are going to be driving twenty-five hundred head of cattle into these pens within the next hour,” he shouted at the pipsqueak standing behind the counter.

  The balding little man wiped at the sweat that beaded his upper lip. “I know, sir, and I expected Mr. Williams back by now.” He pointed at the stack of papers on the counter. “I have the paperwork ready and can assign counters to every pen, but—”

  “Until Williams is here to visually verify they’re mine, anyone can claim those cattle,” Garth finished. “I know the routine. That’s why I’m here a good two hours ahead of my herd to make sure there’s not a single mistake.” It wasn’t likely another herd would hit the stockyards at the exact same time as his, but by this time tomorrow, every pen could be full and he’d seen plenty of mix-ups when it came to verifying which pen belonged to whom. During drives, yard agents were to be on-site at all times.

  “As I explained, Mr. Williams escorted several buyers into town,” the man said. “I’m sure he’ll be back shortly. He knows a herd was scheduled to arrive today. Once the drives start rolling in, more agents will be assigned twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week.”

  Garth banged a fist on the counter. “The drives have started rolling in. Mine!”

  The pipsqueak nearly jumped out of his boots. “I know, sir.”

  “Then get another agent in here!” Garth shouted.

  Jumping back, the man shook his head. “I can’t. They haven’t been assigned yet. Mr. Williams has to do that. He’s scheduled it for tomorrow morning.”

  Scaring the little clerk wasn’t helping; Garth knew that. “Where’d Williams take the buyers?”

  “I’m sure he escorted them to their hotels.”

  “And?”

  The man once again wiped the sweat off his lip while his face turned red.

  Garth’s last nerve snapped in two. “Which whorehouse?”

  “Sir, I didn’t say—”

  “I did!” Garth shouted. “Which one?”

  “Mr. Williams has a special liking for the Crystal Palace.” Darting his eyes toward the window, the man added, “It’s just a block up the road. Has a sign in the front yard.”

  Garth grabbed the stack of papers and scribbled his name to the bottom of the first page as well as drew a quick picture of the McCain brand. A large M with a slash through the center. “What’s Williams’s first name?”

  “Elroy.”

  “And yours?”

  Blinking and swallowing, the man said, “Ludwig. Ludwig Smith.”

  “Well, Ludwig, here’s my name and brand. Get your boys ready to count. I’ll have Elroy back here in ten minutes to approve it.”

  Garth didn’t bother riding his horse. It would be just as fast to walk and he wouldn’t need to worry about the mount while dragging Williams out of the whorehouse. The stock association would hear about this. If they wanted Dodge to reach the potential it had of becoming the greatest cattle town in Kansas, they’d better get the right men at the helm.

  The Crystal Palace was easy to find. Besides the large sign in the front yard, girls with their faces painted and the upper halves of their bosoms popping out of their low-cut dresses covered the front porch. They started whooping and hollering for him to come closer before he’d even entered the street leaving the stockyards.

  Two of them latched on to him as he entered the yard, one on each arm. Garth didn’t bother shaking them off, two more would just have latched on. He’d known the ins and outs of whorehouses since birth. The two holding his arms wouldn’t stop the other girls from continuing to call, blow kisses and bat their lashes in order to make a man believe he needed what they were offering.

  The door was wide open and he marched over the threshold, barely pausing as one girl had to let loose to make it through the doorway. Piano music filled the air, and Garth drew in a deep breath in order to use his diaphragm to shout, “Elroy!”

  An interrupted piano note lingered as tempor
ary silence overcame the room. Garth took advantage of it and shouted again, “Elroy Williams!”

  A thud sounded overhead. Mad enough to skin a mountain lion while it was still alive, Garth spun around and headed for the stairway.

  “Hold up there, cowboy.” A buxom redhead blocked his way. “We don’t abide any fighting. If you got a beef with Elroy, you take it outside.”

  “I got a beef all right,” Garth said before yelling, “Elroy!”

  The woman waved a hand and Garth twisted, expecting to see a thug coming his way. All whorehouses had a burly character assigned to keep things from getting rough. Seeing nothing but more girls, he turned back around.

  “I’m Willow,” the redhead said. “The proprietor of the Crystal Palace.” Glancing toward a girl, she said, “Perhaps you’d care for a drink. Nettie has several on her tray.”

  “No, I don’t want a drink,” Garth said. “I want to climb those stairs, and that’s exactly what I’m going to do.”

  “Oh, no you’re not!”

  That snarl had come from behind him, and the familiarity of the voice sent a shiver up his spine. Garth spun about and was too flabbergasted to even open his mouth, let alone speak.

  “You can’t even take the time to have a bath before you barrel into a whorehouse?” Bridgette shouted at the same time her hand smacked his cheek.

  The sting knocked him out of his stupor. Somewhat. “What the hell are you doing here?” he shouted.

  “Don’t shout at me, you good for nothing—”

  “Oh, no you don’t!” He grabbed the hand she’d raised again. “I’m sick of you slapping me every time you see me.”

  “I haven’t slapped you every time,” she shouted, “but the times I have, you’ve deserved it!”

  She struggled to get her arm from his hold, and others were helping her, including the buxom redhead who was shouting for him to leave. Which he had no intention of doing. Not without Williams or Bridgette. He bit back a curse. He should have known there would be trouble after he’d seen her.