Hill Country Cattleman

“Only one, I’m afraid, Wilkie Collins’s new novel, The Moonstone, and I read it on the voyage,” Violet said, remembering how Edward had bustled her aboard the ship with but a few days to pack. There hadn’t been time to order new books from her favorite store in London. “You’re welcome to borrow it, of course.”

“How wonderful! I’ve read his other novel, The Woman in White. In return I will loan you part one of a marvelous book, Little Women, by an American author, Louisa May Alcott, also published this year. I like her writing, even if she is a Yankee,” she added with a laugh.

“You’re very kind,” Violet murmured, charmed by the other woman’s enthusiasm.

“Not at all,” Caroline said. “It’s too rare that I have a chance to get my hands on a new book—or a new friend.”

“Mama’s always reading,” piped up one of the Colliers’ pretty blue-eyed, black-haired twin girls. Violet wasn’t sure if it was Abigail or Amelia.

The other girl chimed in. “Yeah, and if we’re very good, Mama reads to us at bedtime.”

“You know, in England you two ladies would be called ‘bluestockings,’” Edward commented wryly. “I’m sure Violet won’t mind if I tell you she’s an aspiring novelist, as well.”

Caroline’s eyes widened. “Is that right, Violet? How fascinating! What do you write about?”

“The American West, actually.”

“You don’t say! Tell me about your story,” Caroline invited.

“I—I haven’t got very far as yet, because I felt I didn’t know enough about the area,” Violet had to admit. “Other than that there will be a romance in it. I plan to gather details while I’m here—scenery, clothing, that sort of thing. Your Mr. Masterson was kind enough to tell me the names of some of the wildflowers yesterday, and that the bird we saw was a roadrunner,” she said, trying to sound casual as she mentioned his name.

She missed the quick look Edward darted at Nick.

“Oh, yes, our Raleigh knows the country,” Caroline said. “Most of these fellows could live off the land if they needed to, so they know their surroundings. Well, be sure and let me know if I can answer any questions....”

Where is Raleigh? would have been her first question, if she dared. The addition of the handsome Texan at the table was the only thing that would have made the evening more complete. Violet hadn’t realized how much she had been counting on seeing him until she didn’t catch even a glimpse of the rugged cowboy at Colliers’ Roost. When they arrived in the buckboard, it had been another cowhand who’d emerged from the barn to see to their horse.

Where could he be keeping himself?

* * *

“See? I told you you’d enjoy meeting the Colliers,” Milly remarked as they waved goodbye to their hosts and the wagon carried them away from the house.

“Yes, Caroline was very kind,” Violet agreed, clutching the volume of Little Women that their hostess had lent her as the wagon lurched over a dip in the road. “And her husband is so handsome—just what one pictures when one thinks of a Western rancher.”

“Yes...how those two fell in love is quite a story,” Milly responded with a smile. “Caroline was engaged to marry his brother Pete, you see, but he died during the influenza epidemic a couple years ago. Then, after Caroline became the schoolmarm, Jack turned up with his twin girls, not knowing his brother had passed away. Jack was a widower, and had been planning on driving his cattle to Montana, and wanted his brother and Caroline to keep the girls till he could send for them. He ended up wintering here. He and Caroline fell in love and he forgot all about Montana.”

“That is romantic,” Violet agreed with a sigh. “Why, I thought they’d been married a long time and that Caroline was the twins’ mother.” What would that be like, she wondered, to raise children to whom one hadn’t given birth? Gerald had a son off at Eton whom she had never met, so it was unlikely she would ever become as close as Caroline Collier was to the twins.

She would begin that letter to Gerald before retiring, she decided. In addition to the things she’d thought about writing to him while she lay awake last night, she’d tell him about Simpson Creek, her brother’s ranch, the pinto mare and about the people she’d met since her arrival—though not Raleigh Masterson, she thought again. Gerald wouldn’t think to mention some neighboring land agent who’d done him a couple of trifling services, would he?

* * *

Violet would have been interested to know that Raleigh had watched both her arrival and her departure from the safety of the bunkhouse.

“She’s a purty thing, right enough, that sister of Nick Brookfield and his fancy lord of a brother,” Cookie noted now, next to him.

Raleigh hoped the old chuckwagon cook hadn’t seen him jump. He’d been so intent on watching the Brookfields’ buckboard roll away with Violet in it that he hadn’t heard Cookie come up behind him.

Cookie’s comment didn’t carry far enough to reach the ears of the other cowboys, who had settled down to a game of poker as soon as the visitors’ horses had been hitched back up to their wagon. “Guess ya learned yore lesson about women down in Blanco, after ya almost got yerself hung for a murder ya didn’t commit, didn’t ya?”

“Yeah, don’t worry, Cookie. A fellow can’t get in trouble just looking,” Raleigh responded, but he let the calico curtain fall back into place, denying himself a last glimpse of the English beauty. He shuddered, remembering how being in the wrong place at the wrong time had nearly cost him his life when a girl lured him into the saloon she worked in after it had closed for the night. He’d found the saloon owner dead and been accused of his murder. He’d almost been the guest of honor at a lynching before the real guilty party was discovered.

“Yeah, that’s what Adam said when he first spied that there apple in the Garden of Eden, ain’t it?” Cookie retorted. “Where ya goin’ now?”

“I’m going off on nighthawk duty early, since you’re in a naggin’ mood,” Raleigh replied. “You tell Wes to be sure and relieve me midway through the night, hear?” he added, jerking his head toward the stocky cowboy who currently held what looked to be the winning hand.

They hadn’t stopped riding herd at night after they’d returned from Abilene, even though what they guarded were just the remaining heifers and young bulls that had been too young to go on the drive, plus the horses. There hadn’t been any episodes of rustling for quite a while, and no Comanche raids since earlier in the spring, but it didn’t do to grow careless.

* * *

“It’s such a nice day,” Violet commented the next morning over breakfast. “Would you mind terribly if I take Lady out and explore your land a bit, Nick? I thought I might find a shady spot and do some writing. That is,” she said, eyeing little Nick, who was at present throwing bits of scrambled egg down to the tiger cat who was allowed in the house, “if you wouldn’t like me to watch my nephew awhile and give Milly a break?”

“No, Nicky, the kitty’s had enough,” Milly admonished her son, then redirected his attention with a bit of bacon before turning back to Violet. “I’ll take you up on it another time,” she said with a wry lift of her brow. “Take one of my bonnets and Nick’s spare canteen—it’s going to get very hot very quickly. You can find more water if you need it where the creek widens right at the border between our ranch and the Colliers’.”

Milly’s mention of the Colliers’ ranch reminded Violet of their foreman. Perhaps if luck was with her, she might catch an inspiring glimpse of that intriguing cowboy at work. It was all grist for the literary mill, wasn’t it?

“Stay out of the north pasture. That’s where the cattle are grazing. I don’t think they’d bother you, but they’re not used to you,” Nick added from across the table. “Oh, and Raleigh told me Lady’s been trained to ground-tie—that is, you can just drop the reins on the ground. She’ll graze and not wander too far.”

“How convenient,” Violet said, thinking of how their high-spirited mounts at home would bolt for the barn, given such an opportunity.

“Merely a well-trained Texas cowpony,” Nick responded with a smile.

“Be sure and mind where you walk,” Edward added. “Remember what that Masterson fellow told you about snakes.”

Violet swallowed hard at the thought as she left the room to change into her riding clothes. It was good to be reminded that not everything in Texas was as civilized as England.

* * *

“You don’t think you should go with her, or send one of the hands along?” Edward softly asked his brother after he heard the door shut to Violet’s bedroom. “What about Indians? Or outlaws? Will she be safe, riding alone?”

Nick was glad he hadn’t mentioned the Indian raid to the east a few months ago, or their kidnapping of Faith Bennett, one of the townswomen whom the preacher rescued and then married.

“She’ll be plenty safe enough on the ranch. The boys are out there riding fence and checking on the stock,” Nick said in his imperturbable way.

“Besides, the heat she’s not used to will bring her back in before long,” Milly put in from where she was tugging a fresh shirt over Nicky’s head.

“I suppose it might not be a bad idea to give her some lessons with a pistol and have her carry one when she’s out riding,” Nick added.

Edward shuddered at the thought, but knew he could hardly object when he’d raised concerns about her safety.

Nick leaned forward. “Edward, the quickest way to send her running back into the arms of Gerald Lullington would be for us to monitor her every movement and make her feel like she’s little more than a prisoner while she’s here. She’ll be imagining she’s Juliet and he’s Romeo—without the quick tragic consequences, of course. And the result will be a slower tragedy for her. I think we have to show her she’s worthy of trust.”

Edward sighed. “I hope you’re right.”

* * *

The first thing Violet, on Lady, did was to climb the sloping hill near the ranch house, upon which Nick and the hands had erected a small stone lookout fortress. From here she enjoyed the bird’s-eye view of the mesquite and cactus-dotted fields and the blue hills in the distance. Then, after they descended the hill, she enjoyed the feel of the horse’s powerful muscles moving beneath her in a smooth canter. More than once a jackrabbit sprang up just ahead of Lady’s hooves, and although the mare snorted, ears pricked forward, her steady lope never altered. Violet saw the cattle in the north pasture from a distance, a quiet mass of multicolored beasts with elongated horns, some with calves, all grazing or lying placidly in the shade of a grove of live oaks. It was hard to believe they could be as dangerous as she’d been told.

The sun beat down upon Violet as predicted, making her glad of the bonnet that shaded her head from the worst of its glare. She felt a trickle of perspiration snake down her back. The pinto’s withers were damp, though she had slowed the mare to a walk after a quarter of an hour. It was time to find the creek, and then some shade where she could do some writing.

Heading east, she came to the place where the creek widened just before flowing over the boundary between Brookfield and Collier land. The fence had terminal posts on both sides of the creek so the cattle of either ranch had full access to the widest part of the creek. The north side of the creek was rimmed by a wide rocky ledge.

On the south side of the creek lay a shady grove of cottonwoods and live oaks—the perfect place to write, Violet thought. It would give her a sheltered vantage point overlooking Collier land while she did so.

She let Lady go forward and drink from the stream as long as she wanted to before reining her into the shady grove and dismounting. As soon as Violet dropped her reins, the pinto lowered her head to graze. Milly had sent along an old quilt, and now Violet took that down from where it had been rolled up behind the saddle and spread it out under one of the cottonwoods, settling herself against its rough bark. Pulling the ruled copybook she had brought to write her story in along with a sharpened pencil from the deep pocket of the divided skirt, she set them upon her lap and opened the notebook to the first page.

When they’d boarded the steamer for America, she’d thought she might be able to write an entire rough draft of her novel during the voyage, and merely polish the manuscript while she was in Texas by adding authentic details—verisimilitude, she’d learned it was called—that she would learn during her stay. She’d imagined filling page after page with her story, the hours passing by like minutes, and stopping only when writer’s cramp forced her to. She’d brought a stack of copybooks in her trunk, sure that her novel would be long and her prose lyrical.

When it came down to actually writing, however, she found it difficult to concentrate. Not only was she acutely missing Gerald, of course, but Edward was rarely long absent from her side except when they went to their respective staterooms at night. It was as if he feared one of their assorted fellow travelers, or even one of the deckhands, might tempt her to folly if she was alone. When other passengers stopped to chat, her brother’s manner seemed excessively jovial, as if he was desperate to convince everyone they were on a pleasure trip, and he was not escorting his notorious sister away from England just ahead of scandal.

Now Violet stared at the lines she had penned during the voyage. It was utter and complete tripe, all of it. She had had no idea how to begin a novel about the American West, never having seen the land she was writing about. She had only the most amorphous idea of her hero, and how he should accomplish winning the heroine’s love.

She’d started out describing Gerald as the hero, but she couldn’t imagine Gerald as anything but what he was—an English aristocrat in tweeds rather than cowboy garb. And Edward’s constant presence by her side made Violet too self-conscious to write. It didn’t take long before she put the copybook back in her trunk and only read the book she’d brought with her.

Now, however, she had the perfect opportunity and solitude to make a brilliant new start. Ruthlessly ripping out the four pages she’d written on the ship, she crumpled them into a ball and threw them to the other end of the quilt.

Violet supposed she should start by setting the scene, and so she wrote several lines about the landscape, the cactus, the mesquite, the brightly colored wildflowers...but no, that was dull. Perhaps she should describe her hero, using Raleigh as the model as she had decided the day she arrived in Simpson Creek. But what to call him? She dared not use the same name, for her brothers would think she had developed an inappropriate, schoolgirllike infatuation for the Colliers’ foreman.

Riley? That was close to Raleigh, but perhaps too close.... She should get away from “R” names. Charlie? Marcus? Monty? Yes, Monty, that was just right.

She would start in the middle of the action.

Monty, his pistols still smoking from the shots he had fired, reined in his magnificent blue roan stallion and gazed at the heroine, who looked up at him with undisguised adoration. A tear trickled down her lovely alabaster cheek.

“You have saved me from a Fate Worse Than Death, sir, yet I don’t even know your name,” she said. “How you happened along just in the nick of time, I’ll never know, but I’ll be eternally grateful....”

He dismounted and took hold of her lily-white hand. “Why, I’m Monty—”

Here Violet stopped, chewing on the end of the pencil. What should his last name be? Brewster? Montgomery? No, something simpler—Simpson, for Simpson Creek. When the book was published and she became the darling of the literary world, her hero’s surname would be her tribute to where she’d written the manuscript.

Violet continued writing.

“I’m Monty Simpson. And what might your name be, my fair one?”

Violet giggled. Would a cowboy speak that way? Probably not. She crossed out the last three words and wrote instead, “pretty lady.”

“I’m Lily Lawrence.”

Goodness, it was hot. Milly hadn’t been exaggerating. Heat waves shimmered beyond the shade of the live oak. Violet fanned herself with the copybook, then loosened the top two buttons of her blouse. She probably ought to return to the ranch house soon, but she wanted to write a little more before she left. Besides, she hadn’t so much as caught a glimpse of any cowboys, let alone Raleigh.

The heat was making her drowsy—that, and the early hour she had awakened, thanks to her nephew’s penchant for running through the house exercising his lungs. Violet took a drink from the canteen and thought about splashing some of the water on her face. Perhaps that would make her more alert....

In the distance, a cow bawled.

Surely it wouldn’t hurt to just close her eyes for a moment, and ponder the next lines of dialogue between her hero and the heroine....

Chapter Five

Raleigh had been out riding fence when he’d spotted Lady, saddled and bridled, grazing just beyond a grove of trees near the creek.

He looked around, but didn’t see Violet. Alarm struck him like an arrow of ice. Had she fallen off her mount? Was she lying nearby, unconscious and bleeding?

He galloped his roan through the gap in the fence at the creek, staring wildly around in all directions. Despite Lady’s calm demeanor, Raleigh expected to see the Englishwoman’s crumpled form somewhere in the midst of the grass or, worse yet, lying against one of the clumps of rocks.

Then he caught sight of her white shirt in the grove of trees, and breathed a heartfelt prayer of thanks.

“Miss Violet?” he called, not wanting to startle her, but not understanding why she hadn’t arisen at his approach. Surely anyone would have heard the pounding of his horse’s hooves. Unless she was injured, after all, and had only managed to crawl into the shade before fainting. Heart pounding, he approached, seeing that Violet’s eyes were closed.

She looked utterly peaceful, her clothing neither ripped nor sullied. He could see no blood, and her golden hair curled loosely about her shoulders. A floppy-brimmed hat lay nearby on the grass. Two buttons on the high-necked blouse were undone, giving him a charming view of her graceful neck. Her chest rose and fell in a regular rhythm, her breath softly escaping through parted lips. He saw some sort of notebook lying open in her lap, the pages filled with a looping script, and a pencil lying on it.

Should he wake her? He didn’t want to frighten her—he knew with the sunlight behind him, all she might see when she opened her eyes would be a hulking form looming over her. Yet he knew she wasn’t used to the heat, and if she slept much longer, she might wake up with a headache at the least.

He didn’t want to embarrass her, either. Raleigh backed up carefully, intending to approach again more noisily, calling her name. But when he turned to go, his boot snapped a twig.

She woke up with a start, eyes wide, arms flailing. “Wha—who?”

“Miss Violet, it’s me, Raleigh Masterson,” he said quickly, and watched as her eyes blinked and focused on him and the panic ebbed. “I...I didn’t want to startle you, but I thought you might have had a fall from your horse.”

She jumped to her feet, pushing a loose tendril of hair from her forehead and brushing off her riding skirt. She smiled sheepishly up at him. “No, I didn’t fall... I... It seems I fell asleep,” she said. “The heat made me drowsy.”

She didn’t seem to notice the notebook and pencil, which had fallen to the ground, and now he bent, picked them up and handed them to her. “I’m glad,” he said. “That you weren’t hurt, that is. Were you...writing a letter?” he added, nodding toward the notebook. He was curious, but mainly wanted to give them something to talk about so she could stop feeling self-conscious at being caught napping.

“No, I was actually working on my novel,” she said with a shy pride.

“You’re writing a book, Miss Violet?” He’d never met anyone who’d even thought about doing that, much less actually started one. Most of the men he worked with were almost illiterate. “Can I ask what it’s about? If you don’t mind telling me, of course,” he hastened to add, aware that his question sounded downright nosy.

“Certainly you may,” she said in a way that dispelled any notion that she was perturbed by his curiosity. “It’s a story set in Texas, as a matter of fact. That’s why I was so interested when you were telling me about the flowers and the bird the other day, you see.”

“Why’d you want to write about Texas?”

“Because the American West is so romantic and untamed,” she told him, her face glowing with enthusiasm. “Not at all like proper, civilized England.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” he said. “What about all those old castles and knights in armor, that kind of thing? That sounds pretty exciting to us Americans.”

“‘In days of old when knights were bold’?” she quoted in a singsong voice. “From what I’ve seen, those drafty old castles were a lot less romantic in reality than in the imagination.”

“You’d know best about that,” he said, thinking how heading off stampedes or fighting Indians was the very opposite of romantic to him. But he didn’t want to dim the enthusiasm that made her even more beautiful, if that was possible. “Tell me more about your story.”

She put a finger on her chin. “Well, there’s a hero, of course, and a heroine, whom he rescues in the opening scene,” Violet told him. “I thought it was best to begin in the thick of things, with the hero saving the heroine from danger....”

“May I read it?”

He knew he’d gone too far when she colored and looked away, clutching the notebook to her as if she feared he might snatch it away from her. “Oh, I don’t think it’s ready for others’ eyes yet,” she said. “I’ve only just written a few pages. Perhaps after I’ve polished it a little, it’ll be good enough....”

“‘Good enough?’ I’m just a cowboy, Miss Violet. I went to school only long enough to learn to read, write and cipher before my pa pulled me out to work on the farm. I wouldn’t know good from bad. I’ve never met a writer before.” He let his admiration show in his voice.

Violet turned back to him, surprised. “You’re the first person who’s ever called me a writer, Raleigh Masterson,” she said wonderingly. “Not a ‘would-be writer’ or an ‘authoress,’ as Edward calls it, both of which sound rather condescending, don’t you think? Even Gerald doesn’t understand why I want to try to write—” She stopped suddenly, as if she’d said too much.

“Who’s Gerald? Another of your brothers?” he asked, though her rising color betrayed the answer before she spoke.

She shook her head. “No, my other brother is Richard, the vicar. Gerald is...well, he’s the man I’m in love with, back in England. He’s the Earl of Lullington,” she said, looking down at her riding boots. She spoke so softly that he had to strain to hear, but when he made sense of her words, his heart sank.

She was in love with a nobleman, and apparently, he with her. Of course she’d found someone to love, someone who was titled and wealthy, as she was. He’d been a fool to think otherwise.

“You must miss him a lot, this man. I’m surprised you could leave him for so long,” he said.

Again, she looked surprised, and maybe even a little taken aback by his frankness.

“I’m sorry, it’s none of my business,” Raleigh said. “I don’t know what came over me to say such a meddlesome thing.”

She shrugged. “It’s all right. I’m the one who mentioned Gerald. And I didn’t have a choice about coming here, if you want to know the truth.”

Now it was his turn to feel surprise. “But you seemed so happy to be in Texas,” he said.

She shrugged. “I figured I might as well make the most of it,” she said. “I do love the West, and seeing Nick and meeting his wife and son, of course. But Edward thinks Gerald isn’t a suitable match.”

“I see.” He wanted to ask why, but he’d been too nosy once already.