California Romance Page 4

  Chase shook his dark mane and snorted as if to hurry his master along. He stamped a hoof, and a swirl of pale yellow dust rose up and billowed around the young man.

  “Hey!” Matt admonished with a laugh. “None of that. I won’t be long.” He glanced down at his dust-caked shirt and chaps. What was a little extra dust at this point? He’d been out on the range all day and had built up a good supply of dirt long before Chase showered him.

  “Howdy, Matt. Haven’t seen you around town for a spell. How’re things on the Diamond S?”

  Matt turned. Evan Moore, Madera’s portly postmaster stood in the doorway of his store grinning. His bald head glistened in the hot afternoon sun. Matt smiled back. “Busy, Evan. Fall roundup’s just around the corner.”

  “Got a full crew?”

  “Pretty much. Wish I didn’t have to hire on drifters.” Matt shook his head and joined the postmaster on the wooden sidewalk. “They’re nothing but trouble, but if I don’t snatch ’em up, Chapman over at the Redding Ranch is likely to hire ’em. I don’t want to be caught shorthanded this year.”

  “I don’t blame you.” Evan motioned the young rancher to follow him inside the store. “Don’t worry about the dust,” he said when Matt removed his wide-brimmed felt hat and slapped it against his chaps before entering. “Can’t seem to escape the dust, no matter how hard a body tries. Just like this infernal heat.” Evan wiped the sweat from his shining head and strolled to the small cubicle behind the counter that served as the Madera Post Office. He reached into a pigeonhole and withdrew a fistful of envelopes addressed to Matthew Sterling, c/o Diamond S Ranch. “Sorry, Matt. Nothing from Dolores.”

  “Drat that girl,” Matt muttered, swiping at the stubborn hank of black hair that hung over his eyes like a horse’s forelock. He replaced his Stetson and sorted through the letters with a scowl. “Don’t they teach young ladies to write at that fancy finishing school back east? You’d think Dori could send word to her only brother that she’s alive and happy.”

  The postmaster made no comment.

  Matt sighed. He missed little Dori. He missed her chatter. He even missed the silly, affected airs she put on when she wasn’t happy with the way things were going out at the ranch. Sending her to school in Boston had been Solita’s idea, not his. “Senor Mateo, you must let the senorita finish her education,” the diminutive Mexican housekeeper had insisted. “She is unhappy here. Your mama and papa would have allowed it, had they lived. Since they are no longer with us, you must decide what is best for her, not what is best for you.”

  Matt had agreed, but he wasn’t pleased about it. The white stucco, Spanish-style hacienda seemed huge and empty with the only remaining member of his family gone. He enjoyed these rare visits to Madera. Picking up the mail—a task easily done by any greenhorn ranch hand—was Matt’s excuse to mingle with the friendly people of the small valley town.

  Madera—lumber in Spanish—was the perfect name for the thriving little village that had sprung up all at once a few years back. The California Lumber Company had chosen this site along the Southern Pacific Railroad line as the terminus for their timber flume back in 1876. Six months later the town had been laid out, and building had commenced at a lively rate. Matt often paused in the middle of the wide main street to take in the three hotels, three general stores, the drugstore, butcher shop, blacksmith shop, and livery. He thanked God each and every time for timber, flumes, and lumber companies. No longer isolated on his ranch ten miles east of nowhere, the rancher and his hands benefited from the influx of new businesses and the people who ran them. All in all, Madera was—in Matt’s opinion—just about the prettiest and most wide-awake town in the entire San Joaquin Valley.

  Matt gave Evan a curt good-bye and left the post office in ill humor. It rankled him that Dori, as usual, was probably caught up in her own affairs and wouldn’t get around to writing her brother until Christmas. He stuffed the handful of envelopes into his saddlebag and sighed. “Sometimes I wonder why the good Lord made girls in the first place,” he muttered. “Trouble. Nothing but trouble.”

  Matt shook himself free of musings. Thinking about Dori and her irresponsibility invariably made him remember Lydia Hensley. Forget about her, he ordered himself, clenching his jaw. That’s over. I’m free of her, and I won’t waste the rest of a perfectly good afternoon reflecting on what went wrong between us.

  “Let’s get on home, Chase,” Matt mumbled to his horse. His trip to town, which he’d looked forward to all day, had turned into a disappointment. Now all he wanted was a bath, a clean set of clothes, and a tall, cool glass of Solita’s lemonade—in that order. He untied Chase and glanced toward the elegant, two-story hotel that occupied the best lot in town. “I’ll catch the captain later, I guess, though he’ll probably give me what for for not stopping by.”

  Before he could mount up, the swinging doors to Dunlap’s Saloon flew open. A wizened, bewhiskered man tore down the wooden sidewalk bellowing, “Somebody get the sheriff!”

  Matt gave the old man a disgusted look when he stumbled across the street to where Matt stood beside his horse. The one blight on this town was the saloons that kept cropping up. He’d been glad when Captain Mace turned his saloon into a hotel a few years back, but another saloon just sprang up in its place—and another, and another, until there were more saloons than churches in Matt’s beloved town.

  “What’s the trouble, Dan?” he asked the wheezing, wide-eyed man. “Can’t Dunlap keep control of his customers?”

  Dan Doyle reached out to steady himself against Matt’s horse. “It’s bad, Matt. Some wild-eyed, greenhorn kid came tearin’ into the saloon yellin’ that a two-legged skunk stole his horse. Like t’near started tearin’ the place apart.”

  “Sounds like the usual scuffle. What’s got you so fired up?”

  Dan was breathing hard. “ ’Cause he’s just a kid, and it’s Red Fallon he’s accusin’.”

  Matt caught his breath. It sounded like this wasn’t the usual fray that went on behind barroom doors. Red had a mean streak. He was an excellent cowhand, but the fiery redhead couldn’t control his temper or hold his liquor—facts that kept him drifting from job to job. Against his better judgment Matt had hired Red on for the fall roundup. Now it already looked like he was going to regret it.

  “I can’t stay and jaw with you, Matt,” Dan burst out. “I gotta get the sheriff quick, or there’s gonna be a killin’. You oughta go over there and see if you can step in. Red’s one of yer hands.”

  “I suppose you’re right.” Matt grimaced, set his jaw, and stepped into the street.

  “Watch yourself, Matt.” Dan gave a final warning. “Red’s got a knife.”

  Matt grunted and hitched Chase to the rail again. A few long strides across the street and a mighty shove of the swinging doors put Matt inside the saloon—a place he only entered when he was obliged to round up some of his Diamond S hands after an occasional Saturday-night binge. The scene before him was one of wild confusion—just as Dan had described. Red Fallon towered over a stripling lad, knife in one hand, his other fist upraised. His steel gray eyes gleamed; a dangerous smile showed through his unkempt red beard.

  The kid, who looked to be eighteen or nineteen, shook as he lay on the sawdust-covered floor. Matt sensed it was from rage, not fear. Blood poured from his nose. One eye was nearly swollen shut, and he was gasping for breath. His hand clutched his other arm, which told Matt that Red’s knife had probably been busy. Clearly undaunted, the kid glowered at the hulking cowhand.

  In spite of himself, Matt grinned. Although the kid was roughed up pretty bad, he didn’t look beaten. Matt expected the boy to go after Red again at any moment. He could see it in the flashing blue eyes. Down but not out. Thinks he can take on a grizzly bear! Just like Robbie. In a flash the memory of Matt’s little brother—much younger—going after Matt came to mind. His grin widened. A pair of cubs, neither of whom would admit defeat no matter what.

  Matt was right. Uttering a shriek r
eminiscent of an Indian war cry, the youth sprang to his feet and lurched at Red, ramming his head into the big man’s belly. With a surprised oof, Red reeled back, right into Matt’s arms.

  Chapter 6

  What’s going on in here?” Matt demanded of the cowhand. He heaved Red away from the boy, who was stumbling around, flailing his arms, and trying to stay on his feet.

  “I’ll kill that little upstart!” Red bellowed, lunging past Matt with murder in his eyes. His knife flashed.

  Quick as lightning, Matt lashed out and grasped Red’s knife hand. A twist, and the knife thudded to the floor. Matt picked it up, brushed away the sawdust, and laid it on the bar.

  Red glared at Matt. “This ain’t your affair, Boss.” He pointed a meaty finger at the kid. “This is between me and him.” He took a step toward the youth, who backed away, still clutching his arm. Blood flowed freely between his fingers, but he didn’t seem to notice.

  Matt stepped between them. “I’ll ask you once more, Red, and I want a straight answer. What in blue blazes is going on?”

  “That’s what I’d like to know,” a deep voice said from the saloon door. Sheriff Meade elbowed his way past the onlookers and glowered at the two men in the middle of the room.

  “I’ll tell you what’s going on,” the bloody but unbeaten lad shouted. He pointed an accusing finger at Red Fallon. “He stole my horse and supplies two days ago. I had to hoof it here without food and water.” The lad’s dusty shirt, jeans, and boots gave credence to his statement. He shook his fist at Red. “Copper’s hitched outside this very minute!”

  “That’s a mighty serious accusation, son,” Sheriff Meade quietly said. “Can you prove it?”

  “Naw, he can’t prove it!” Red bawled. His nostrils flared. “I found that sorrel wandering around up near Raymond when I was going after strays the other—”

  “Liar!” The boy leaped.

  Matt caught him easily and steered him away from the enraged Red Fallon. “Take it easy, boy. No sense gettin’ killed over a horse. Simmer down and let the sheriff get to the bottom of it.” He looked into the kid’s battered face, “What’s your name?”

  “Seth. Seth Anderson. And that ugly skunk is a lying horse thief.” He made one more attempt to get at Red, then his eyes rolled back into his head, and he collapsed in Matt’s arms.

  Matt stared down at the unconscious youth. Seth’s face was pale and gaunt beneath the dark bruises. Matt motioned to a couple of spectators. “Jake, you and Murray take this poor kid over to Mace’s Hotel and ask Doc Brown to have a look at him. He’s lost a lot of blood. I’ll be along after a while.” He gently placed Seth’s limp body into the men’s care and rounded on his erring cowhand. “There was no call to beat up that boy. Why’d you do it?”

  “Boss, I don’t take kindly to being accused of stealin’ a man’s horse and supplies. I tell you, I found that horse up in the foothills. There was nobody around.” Red shrugged and spread his range-hardened hands. “Figured some feller met his end up near the mines. Why should I let a good piece of horseflesh wander off?”

  “When you found out the horse belonged to Seth, why didn’t you just give it back?” Matt wanted to know. He frowned. Something didn’t ring true with Red’s story, no matter how plausible it sounded. Or how aggrieved and innocent the cowboy acted.

  “Why, Boss.” Red grinned and reached for his knife. “That wildcat kid burst in here madder’n a hornet, demanding to know who owned the sorrel gelding tied up outside. ’Course I told him it was mine.” He examined his knife and slid it carefully into the sheath hanging from his belt. “He just lit into me after that.”

  “Yeah, Red. After you baited him,” Charlie Dunlap piped up from behind the bar. He mimicked Red’s voice. “Hey fellers, any of you missin’ a sorrel? No kid like this one’s got a horse like that, ’nless he stole him. Know what we do to horse stealers ’round here?” Charlie scowled. “Sure young Anderson pitched into you. No self-respectin’ feller, kid or not, would take that guff—and I notice you took almighty pleasure in beatin’ the stuffin’ out of him!”

  A murmur of assent swept through the onlookers.

  The sheriff ’s disbelieving snort showed his opinion of Red’s story and confirmed Matt’s suspicions. “Let’s take a look at the horse.”

  With Sheriff Meade in the lead, Matt, Red, and a crowd of interested bystanders left the saloon and approached the sorrel Seth had referred to as “Copper.” The tired animal stood with drooping head, showing he’d been ridden hard. But his ears perked up and he whinnied when the sheriff laid a gentle hand on his mane.

  Matt whistled softly. “Nice horse. No wonder the kid was upset to find him missing or stolen.”

  Red glowered at his boss at the word stolen but kept his mouth shut. Sheriff Meade opened a saddlebag and pulled out a change of clothes. “These look like they might fit young Anderson.” He sighed. “But without more evidence, I don’t know how I can just hand this horse over to some stray kid who claims the sorrel’s his.”

  “What about this?” Matt asked from the other side of the horse. He held up a wrinkled and faded photograph. “It might be a picture of his family. One of them is a good likeness of Seth. The others…” His voice trailed off as he gazed at the faces of two women. One was an older woman who clearly resembled Seth. The other—

  Matt held his breath at the picture of the…girl? No. Not a girl but a young lady. She was seated next to the woman he decided must be their mother. Matt was struck by the girl’s clear, steady gaze and the look of quiet honesty on her young face. A pretty face. Innocent with a look of fun and laughter waiting to be set free. Not beautiful, but Matt had no interest in beauty. “Favour is deceitful, and beauty is vain….” He’d learned that the hard way from Lydia Hensley a few years back. Quickly he passed the photograph to Sheriff Meade.

  The sheriff gave the photo a brief glance and announced his decision. “Appears to me this sorrel belongs to Seth Anderson.” He caught Red’s baleful gaze, held up a weather-beaten hand when Red started to speak, and said, “Don’t get your back up, Red. I want to hear the boy’s side of this before I make any final judgment. He ain’t up to talking and probably won’t be for a while. I’m gonna overlook the beating you gave the kid—for now. But if that boy’s injuries prove serious, I’m taking you in. This is the third cutting scrape this month, and I’ve had enough. Ben Hoder’s still in jail waitin’ trial for carving up Joe Mova so bad he died. You’ll be joining him if you’re not careful.”

  Red’s face turned livid. “You can’t arrest me for—”

  “That’s what you think.” Sheriff Meade strode off, his boot heels clumping heavily on the wooden sidewalk outside the saloon.

  “Get back to the ranch,” Matt barked, “before I decide I’d rather go shorthanded this season than put up with your shenanigans.”

  “Ain’t got no horse,” Red whined. “Sold him when I got the sorrel.”

  “A shame.” Matt shook his head, not sorry in the least. “I suggest you go buy him back. Then get out to the ranch.” He raised a warning finger at the man. “And I don’t want this incident brought up again, is that clear?”

  A curt nod was all Matt got for a response. The big cowhand turned on his heel and took off down the street.

  A sigh of relief whispered through the crowd. The interested bystanders went about their business. Matt made sure Seth would be all right then mounted Chase and headed back to the Diamond S—thanking God he had chosen to ride into town this morning. His thoughts kept time to the rhythmic beat of the buckskin’s hooves on the parched ground. Who was Seth Anderson? Where had he come from? Judging by his ragged, dusty clothing, he’d been on the trail for some time.

  Were the woman and girl in the picture really the young man’s mother and sister? Matt laughed. “Why should I care, Chase?” The gelding flicked his ears but didn’t change his stride. “I do though. He’s a game kid, just like Robbie.” A pang went through Matt. “God, I miss Robbie so much. I don�
��t know why he had to die so young.” He forced his thoughts back to the present. “I hope Seth will be all right. I’d hate for anything to happen to him. He must be a pretty good sort, with a mother and sister like that. Looks like he could use some help. If he pulls through, I’ll see what I can do.”

  Long before Matt reached the Diamond S, he had spun dreams of bringing Seth Anderson to the ranch and teaching him the tricks of the range—the same way he had once taught Robbie. Matt smiled. “Lord, if I’m a good judge of character—and I am—this tenderfoot kid will take to life on the Diamond S like Chase to a water trough on a hot day. He’s as spunky as Dori, and with her off at school, it will be good to have someone like him around the place again.” Stirrings of anticipation brought a laugh. “Oh boy, when she comes home, those two will liven up the ranch like fireworks on the Fourth of July!”

  Eighteen months later, Matt knew it had to be the good Lord who’d literally dropped Seth Anderson into his lap that dusty fall afternoon. After hearing from Doc Brown that the lad’s injuries were not life threatening but merely a temporary annoyance, Matt had offered to free Captain Mace from having to care for the young stray. The tourist season was in full swing, and the captain had plenty to oversee. His hotel was crowded with guests waiting to take the Yosemite Stage and Turnpike Company’s ninety-mile trip up ten thousand feet to enjoy the awesome grandeur of Yosemite Valley. In addition, the captain and his crew provided a hearty supper for the southbound passengers of the Southern Pacific Railroad when it stopped in Madera each evening. It was too much to ask the generous hotel proprietor to care for a boy who would need vigilant attention over the next few weeks. The Diamond S was the perfect place for Seth to recuperate.