He was slipping past her and she stopped him with a hand on his arm.
“Whit — what is it?”
He nodded to the Appaloosa at the hitch rail below. “The man that critter belongs to is sellin’ your papa a bill o’ goods, far as I’m concerned.”
Whit started to go again and this time she stopped him with a sharp word: “Whit.”
He was already at the bottom of the porch steps, but he halted and she came down again.
“Spill it,” she said.
He shook his head, dark tendrils of hair stuck to his forehead. “The old feller asks me to stick around and sit in on a meetin’ with this Zachary Gauge joker. I got work to do. Them new boys don’t know up from down without me to tell ’em. But I say, sure, I mean, your pop’s the boss. So I sit in.”
“And?”
He scowled. “And when that snake-oil salesman starts in on Mr. Cullen, I just got to askin’ questions. I mean, what does some Eastern dude know about ranchin’, anyhow?”
She nodded toward the Appaloosa. “He’s got himself a nice horse.”
“Yeah, and a nice saddle, because he’s the type that thinks money can buy anything. So I call him on some of what he’s puttin’ out there. But your papa acts like I’m bein’ disrespectful or rude or some damn thing... excuse the language.”
“I’ll get over it, Whit.”
He pointed toward the house with his Stetson. “You best go in there, Miss Cullen, before your papa makes a consarned fool of himself.”
As the foreman rode off, a little harder than need be, Willa wasn’t sure whether to be amused or concerned. She went quickly inside to see which was warranted.
Moving through the entry into the beam-ceilinged living room — where her father’s rough-hewn carpentry mingled surprisingly well with her late mother’s beautifully carved Spanish-style furniture — she found Papa and his guest seated in two Indian-blanket-covered, rough-wood chairs near the unlit stone fireplace at the far end of the room.
The ranch house had a lodge feel to it — hides on the floor, deer heads on the walls, with deer-hoof gun racks on either side of the fireplace, at left holding a Sharps rifle and at right a Winchester. Both weapons were functional, but the Sharps carried special significance — Papa had come West with not much more than a horse and that rifle. Buffalo hunting had built the grubstake from which Papa’s first cattle herd came.
“Ah!” Papa said, rising. “Here’s my daughter!”
He knew her footfall.
Zachary Gauge stood as well. He was again in black frock coat with fancy waistcoat and black silk tie. She couldn’t decide whether his apparel reminded her more of a preacher or a gambler. But she appreciated the warmth of his smile as she approached.
She paused, the two men standing at the rough chairs, the backs of which were to her. “Has my father offered you anything to drink?”
Zachary waved that off. “Oh, that’s kind, Miss Cullen, but not necessary.”
She stood with her hands fig-leafed before her, a hostess in plaid shirt and jeans. “Nonsense. There’s some coffee left from this morning. I’ll heat it up. Might be strong enough to make your eyes water, at this point. But it should wet the whistle.”
Her father said, “Please do that, Willa. It’s the simple, civilized niceties that a blind old man can’t offer properly... Unless you’d like a glass of hard cider, Mr. Gauge?”
Zachary raised his palms in surrender. “Coffee will be just fine. Perhaps some cream and sugar?”
Her father asked for a cup, black, and she went off to fill the orders. She returned, set the cups on a silver tray on the small rustic table between the two big chairs, and — with her own cup of coffee — sat on the hearth facing the two men, but also between them.
This was a most conscious choice, as a chair Whit had obviously vacated was over by her father.
“It’s very neighborly of you,” she said to their guest, “dropping by to say hello like this.”
A half-smile curled in the narrow oval of his face. Those cheekbones seemed borrowed from an Apache, and the wide-set dark eyes had an almost Oriental cast. And a better barber than their mayor had cut that hair and trimmed that mustache.
No question about it, she thought. Zachary Gauge was a handsome devil.
“This is not just a social call, Miss Cullen,” he said, in his smooth second tenor. “We’ve paid our mutual respects already, at the Grange Hall. I’m here taking your father up on his offer to talk business.”
Willa smiled, but tightly. “Well, let’s not rush into things.” She turned toward her father. “Have I missed anything, Father? You haven’t sold Mr. Gauge my calico, have you? I’m fond of Daisy, and, anyway, our visitor already has a handsome horse.”
Papa said, “We’re still getting to know each other, Daughter. Let’s stay hospitable.”
She shifted her smiling but serious gaze to their guest. “Well, Mr. Gauge here seems to think the socializing is over and the business has begun. What business, exactly, is it we’re discussing?”
“Miss Cullen,” Zachary said, sitting forward, hands clasped between his knees, “you are right to be cautious. Everything today that we discuss is... preliminary. Exploratory.”
“That’s a relief. As I say, I’m fond of my calico.”
He chuckled softly. “Your calico is quite removed from my evil designs.”
“How wonderful to hear. What are your evil designs, now that you mention them?”
Her father frowned at her. “Daughter...”
But Zachary said, “As I said at the Grange, Miss Cullen, I’m cattle poor... at least for the moment. On the other hand, I have three times as much land as your father does.”
“As my father and I do,” she corrected gently.
“Forgive me. I am aware that you...” He seemed about to say “help your father,” but instead said, “...are a key part of what makes the Bar-O tick.”
“She surely is,” Papa put in.
“But consider,” Zachary said, leaning back and gesturing with a slender-fingered hand, one that she doubted had seen physical labor in some time if ever, “between us we could become a virtual cattle empire in this part of the world. Sir, you could be the next John Chisum. We would be second to none in the entire New Mexico territory.”
“Us with all our cows,” she said, “you with all that land. Land, that is, with no cows on it.”
Another smile. They came easily to him. “That can be remedied with money. And I have money. What I don’t have is experience in the cattle business, much less expertise. Now in business period, I have considerable experience and for that matter considerable expertise. I would pull my weight. I would add to the enterprise.”
“What exactly are you suggesting?” she asked.
“I’m suggesting you consider a proposal to merge our holdings, much as industries back East merge into more powerful, bigger industries.” Zachary looked toward the sightless man. “I’m not suggesting that you sell me a few cattle... a starter herd... no.”
But Papa already knew that, and he said to her, “Zachary would like to use my know-how... our know-how... and connections in the cattle trade... to build a herd twice the size of what we now have.”
“And that would only be the start,” Zachary said.
“Partners,” she said.
“Yes. Fifty-fifty. Really, I’ll be contributing more, because I have more land and my funds will purchase enough cattle to, as your father said, double the size of your herd.”
“Why so generous?” she asked.
He flipped a hand. “Because I am an infant in the cattle business. I want to partner with people who know what they’re doing. Who are respected, knowledgeable cattle ranchers.”