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hung on the line. Though blurry, he could see her dress. It might smell clean, but was well-worn and the same dull gray as her bonnet. Even a poor man has scruples, so he didn’t judge a person’s character by their clothes, but he did use their appearance to judge the size of their pocketbook. Hers was empty. “You don’t have enough money to buy that cow.”
“What do you need besides money?”
When Brad had called the man who’d taken the calf her husband, she’d quickly pointed out that he wasn’t her husband. But how then had she got the calf? Her uppity stance didn’t fit with a loose woman, but Garth’s instincts said if that man had been her brother or father, even an uncle, she’d have supplied that information. She hadn’t. That left one thing. Aggravated, he twisted out of her hold. “Get on your horse and go home.”
“No. Not until I get what I came for. What do you need for the cow and the calf, besides money?”
“Nothing.” He pointed his pistol toward the calf. His stomach churned at the idea of shooting the calf, but his point had been made.
She jumped in front of his gun as he pulled back the hammer.
He swung the gun aside. “You trying to get yourself killed?”
“No, I’m making sure that calf doesn’t.” She stepped closer. “Please, mister. There’s a woman I’m taking care of. She’s about to have a baby, but is ailing. She needs the milk and butter this cow can provide. If you won’t trade me for them, loan them to me. Just for a few weeks. You can come back and get them when the calf is big enough to travel. Take them to the sale barn then.”
Her pleading was far more difficult to deal with than her demands. He wasn’t wavering though. “I sell cows by the lot, not singularly.”
“Garth,” JoJo said. “What’s one cow? You got over two thousand others.”
Though the cook had spoken to him, JoJo’s words had caught the woman’s attention. Her head had snapped up and her stare grew intense. Like she was trying to see something inside him. Or maybe she was just staring at his swollen face. Either way, her eye-to-eye stare made Garth’s stomach quiver. Very few things made his insides quiver. “Stay out of this, JoJo,” he said without breaking eye contact with her.
“Garth?” she asked almost as if testing if she could say it or not.
“That’s my name,” he said. “It’s not a long or complicated one.”
“Garth what?”
“McCain. And those twenty-five hundred cows JoJo just mentioned are all mine.”
“Garth McCain.” She repeated it as if it was a curse like no other.
Then along with a hiss, she hauled off and smacked his cheek so fast and hard he had to blink at the shock. And hold his breath at the renewed throbbing of his eye.
He grabbed her wrist before she could strike a second time. “What’s wrong with you?”
Bridgette wondered the exact same thing. If this was Garth. The Garth McCain she’d been waiting to see for the past nine years, why wasn’t she happy? Ecstatic? And good heavens, why had she slapped him? His face was already swollen and red, and looked extremely painful. The mud had dried and cracked making his eye and cheek look horrific.
The whiskers didn’t help either. He looked nothing like the boy she remembered, or the man she’d imagined he’d become. He didn’t act like him either. Her Garth wouldn’t have ordered a calf killed, or threatened to kill one. Yet, there couldn’t be two Garth McCains. Could there?
“Where are you from?” she asked while continuing to search for familiarity somewhere in his features. His eye that wasn’t swollen shut, was so narrow she couldn’t see if his eyes were brown or not and the dark hair that hung past his shirt collar was as coated with dust as his clothes.
The last time she’d seen him, his hair had been short. Shaved clear to his scalp. That had happened to all the boys before they’d left New York. She and the other girls had received a good dip in a kerosene bath. Both measures had been to prevent any of them from carrying the head lice that lived at the orphanage along with them.
“Texas,” he said.
“Before then?”
“Why?”
Bridgette didn’t realize she was nibbling on a thumb nail until his eye widened a touch, as if noticing that was exactly what she was doing. She pulled her hand away from her face. Mrs. Killgrove had used whacks from a wooden ruler to break her of her nail biting habit back in the orphanage, and she hadn’t bitten them for years.
Suddenly she didn’t want to know if this was Garth—her Garth—or not. Didn’t want to believe he could have changed that much. Or maybe she didn’t want to believe he had deserted her. Forgotten she existed.
Walking around him, she said, “Keep your cow and your calf.”
The cook, who had introduced himself as JoJo—no last name, just JoJo—fell in step beside her. “Listen up here, missy. That’s a fine cow and Garth there—”
“I no longer want the cow and her calf, but you can keep the eggs and green beans for the trouble.”
“That wouldn’t be right. Garth is a fair man and he won’t—”
“Good day, sir.” She’d arrived at Cecil’s plow horse, and gathered a handful of her skirt to climb into the saddle.
“What’s your name?”
The question didn’t surprise her. Footsteps had followed her to the horse. The fluttering inside her wasn’t surprising either, nor was it welcomed. Whether this was her Garth or not, she had nothing more to say to him. Without answering, she stuck a foot in the stirrup and using the horn, hoisted herself into the saddle. Before he could stop her, she slapped the reins over the horse’s rump.
The animal wasn’t overly fast, but she urged it into a gallop that was surprisingly smooth for an animal of its size. It felt as if she was running away, and that wasn’t something she did. Despite how often she’d dreamed of it. Furthermore, if she was hoping for freedom, there wasn’t any. Not from inside her that is.
The heat of the sun was sweltering, yet, she was cold. Shivering. The hope, the dream of Garth finding her and finally living a life full of brightly colored rainbows, seeped out of her like a bucket with a hole in the bottom. She wasn’t exactly sure what she’d expected him to be like when they met again, but this man—the one who’d order a young man to kill an innocent calf—wasn’t it. Nor was one who would shoot the calf himself, just in order to prove a point. That’s what he’d been doing. Proving a point.
A heavy sigh left her chest and she let the plow horse slow to its regular sluggish pace. Proving a point was something Garth would do. Always had. From the time he’d arrived at the orphanage, he’d taken it upon himself to be a leader. A guardian to those who needed one. He’d also been a teacher. Making sure if there was a lesson to be learned, it was learned.
That was where the problem lay. She could believe the man she’d just encountered was her Garth. The Garth McCain she’d wasted nine years waiting for. What angered her, what hurt, was what JoJo had told her before he’d arrived.
JoJo had only called him the boss man, and had said he was fair and honest, and would be the one to decide upon her trade. He’d also said the boss man had been bringing cattle from Texas to Kansas for years and had often made trades such as the one she’d offered.
Years. He’d been traveling past her home for years and never once bothered to look for her. Not once, and that hurt. Hurt her more than she’d ever been hurt before.
She understood on the way north he might have been too busy. Driving thousands of cattle wasn’t an easy job. But, once the cattle were delivered, men often hung around, spending a large portion of the money they’d earned in Dodge before slowly making their way back