What she did after the hens were boiling and steaming on the stove, the bread was covered and rising, was something she had only dreamed of doing. She went to the corral and the only animal that came up to her was Davey’s bay. She petted the bay’s face, and slipped on a neck rope, then twisted the end around the long nose, spending far too much time fashioning a way to lead the horse. Men had always caught and saddled an animal for her. She put her hands on the bay’s neck and spoke firmly until the horse was quiet. Her courage returned, and she laid the blanket on the horse, lifted the saddle to her thigh, then heaved it up and over. The bay accepted the familiar burden with a deep sigh.
She had witnessed the rigging of saddles, so, when she pulled on the latigo and the bay distended its belly, Katherine brought up her knee into the animal’s gut and the bay blew air that smelled of fresh grass and sweet grain. Katherine laughed, and patted the bay neck. Success.
The bridle was another matter, but in the end she was satisfied that, if the bay tried to run away, she would have some control. The metal hunglow in the bay’s mouth but the animal could not spit out the bit. She decided it was time to climb aboard, after retightening the cinch as she had seen the men do.
Katherine pulled, and heaved, and cursed, and eventually found herself in the middle of the saddle before the horse walked away from the fence. Having been witness to the many contests between horse and rider, she was delighted that the bay was so quiet. This happened, she supposed, from its having been ridden hard over the past days. She would not ask much from the horse; this ride was meant solely for pleasure.
A side-saddle held a woman captive, left her awkwardly hanging to what was called a leaping horn, legs dangling, supported while strangled by the saddle’s confinement designed to insure her female safety. Riding astride was forbidden, unmentionable, a daring act no respectable woman would consider. For visits and chores, a woman more often chose the utility of a sensible horse and a fine wagon, harnessed and brought to her, of course, by one of the ranch hands.
Eventually, finding her balance easier with legs placed on both sides of the horse, Katherine began to study her surroundings. She was already well away from the ranch, seeing only grass and tall trees, the shadowed mountains, the overwhelming sky. This was a freedom she had longed for. She let the reins slide loose and kicked the bay, and it was as if a force propelled her backward. She needed to open her mouth wide to inhale gulps of air. Her eyes watered and the tears blinded her, but she was fearful of loosening her grip on the saddle horn to wipe them away.
There was no time or distance, only the horse and the air—the motion that she had not ever felt. The bay was beginning to tire; she knew from the slowing strides, the deep, harsh sound of the bay’s breathing. It was how she felt, also, and it was strange to be in silent agreement with an animal that could neither talk her language nor understand her need.
The horse walked and Katherine leaned down, laid her face on the black mane and spoke all the words she could not say to another human being. The bay tossed its head and moved on.
Then bay stopped abruptly, throwing Katherine forward, and she sat up, outraged. A horseman came from a narrow draw to her left, and the bay swung its head to watch the stranger approach. It was Jack Holden.
He reined in his sweaty paint and nodded to her, tipped his hat. “Good day to you, Katherine Donald. This is not where I would expect to find you. Out hunting?”
Katherine stared at Jack’s face. He had changed—black shadows marred his handsome features. But he still sat his horse with the usual air of grace, one hand on the reins, the other ready to hold a pistol or reach for Katherine.
He was hurried, that was evident by the rise and fall of the paint’s ribs, the white lather showing under the saddle skirt, along the horse’s neck, between its front legs. The paint was thinned down from too many of these hard runs. Jack definitely looked shabby, but he had not yet been caught and hanged.
“I thought you were on the mesa, Jack. Surrounded by every man within a hundred miles ormore, and you fighting for your life.” She did not screen her words and did wince after she had spoken them. “You have been fairly identified as a thief, Jack. Why the change…why would you now begin to steal from the ranchers here? They are even linking Burn English with you, and, because of what you have done, they will try to hang him, also.”
She thought she had spoken the words in a neutral tone, but there must have been a note in her voice, for Holden smiled for the first time in their chance encounter.
“Ma’am it’s good to see you, too. But I swear English is not counted among my friends or associates, and he is most definitely not on Slaughter Mesa. I’ve never met him, unless you count the time I tried to swap horses with him.” Jack laughed, and there was a dreamy look to his eyes, a memory of something better. He took a long breath. “He stood that mustang broadside and dared me. Offered me a short ride, knowing I wanted his bronc’. There weren’t nothing I could do ’gainst that kind of courage. He couldn’t have weighed more’n a hundred something pounds, like a scrawny cat tackling a bulldog.”
Then: “Ma’am, I got a favor to ask.” Jack looked directly at Katherine and did not flinch at what he must have read. “Ma’am …I lost a good friend, and word’s come back they finally buried him. Would you get a name put on a cross? Name’s Refugio, that’s all. Refugio.”
She nodded yes, of course, remembering the sorry tale brought to the ranch by Eager Briggs. This Refugio had been a Mexican bandit and a friend of Jack’s.
“There’s another favor, a tougher one,” he said, looking away. “I know there’s always a girl. But this one…I wronged her, Kate. It makes me ashamed of what I done. Please.” Here he quit, at a loss for the right words.
Katherine watched his drained face, and thought of the summer gossip.
“It’s Rose Victoria, isn’t it, Jack?”
He nodded, relieved of having to speak the name.
“Well, I can’t guess what you have done to her. She’s not pregnant, is she? She’s not carrying your child?” This should be a feared subject, too basic to be mentioned between unmarried men and women.
Jack’s face was white, but he told the truth. “I’ve taken her, Kate. Several times, and she’s come willingly to me. But this last time, I was wrong.”
Whatever lay on his conscience, Katherine decided she would not make it easier by mouthing those useless, magical words of it not being his fault, of his being blameless in having a girl, a mere child.
“I took her, Kate. Can you understand what that means?”
Yes, Katherine thought, I can understand. But she would not condone his doing so. Still the man had been accused of worse, and the girl had been with him of her own accord. It wasn’t fair, she wanted to cry, it wasn’t right for him to take a lovely young thing who had a chance at marriage. He had his pick of the wives and spinsters; it was unfair that he took the pretty girls, too.
“I won’t be able ever to explain to her. Would you please…?”
Katherine had been too deep in her own thoughts and not listening to him, for she had no idea what he’d requested. But she nodded, looked straight at him.
“I need her to know it was wrong. She needs to know men can be better than I ever was.”
Katherine would try to explain to Rose Victoria, but she was not convinced the girl even knew she had been wronged.
They watched each other, two lonely people, and each saw the hurtful truth.