Hidden Trusts Page 5

  "— it's in full bloom, I know." Amy quirked a grin.

  "Don't be such a mother hen." Nora caught up with them and kissed Luke's cheek. "Amy knows what she's doing."

  She did.

  Pride flowed through Luke, and she smiled. Still, she couldn't stop worrying. Amy was a top hand with the horses, but she'd never had to run the ranch on her own without Luke there to give advice.

  Seems it's gonna be a time of new challenges for all of us.

  Luke turned to Phin. "Ready?"

  "Ready, boss."

  One last kiss for Nora and hugs for the girls, then Luke swung into the saddle. "Then let's go."

  * * *

  Darned thing! The ribbon of Amy's sunbonnet just wouldn't give. She fumbled one-handedly while her right hand held the wagon's reins. When the knot didn't come undone, she clamped her teeth around the reins and, using two hands, finally freed herself of the bonnet.

  Not that Old Jack needed her to hold on to the reins. The gelding had pulled the buckboard to town so often that he probably knew the way better than she did.

  She lifted her face and let the light, steady drizzle refresh her.

  "Whoa." A soft tug on the reins brought the buckboard to a halt on the edge of a rocky ridge overlooking Baker Prairie. Below her, the Molalla River, a frothing mountain stream, joined the broad, glittering band of the Willamette River on its journey north.

  She sat up taller as she glanced back at gentle hills, lush grass, and groves of Douglas firs. The roots binding her to this land were as deep as those of the ancient firs.

  Above her, a flock of Canada geese formed a large V and a red-tailed hawk glided through the air. Amy watched as he rose and fell with the currents, drifting wherever he wanted, completely free.

  She wished she could be like that, riding freely instead of having to spend the afternoon in town. But Phin's bride was bound to have some baggage with her, so riding Ruby to town was out of the question.

  With a sigh, she placed the sunbonnet back on her head. The ribbon tightened beneath her chin, and Amy swallowed. Then she smacked herself in the thigh and clucked at Old Jack. "Hyah!"

  * * *

  When Amy slung the reins over the hitching rail, the door to the dry-goods store swung open. Hannah and her husband stepped out.

  Joshua doffed his hat and mumbled a greeting and then escaped to their buckboard with their little boy, leaving the women to talk.

  Amy smoothed her hands over the unfamiliar contours of her skirt and tried a smile. "Hello, Hannah."

  "Amy." A smile dimpled Hannah's chubby cheeks. "How have you been? I never get to see you anymore."

  "We had a lot of work out on the ranch, trying to get a herd together so Papa can drive them to Fort Boise."

  "Fort Boise?" Hannah's brow furrowed. "Josh says there have been massacres up there."

  "I heard."

  The mines in the Boise Basin lured more settlers to the area, and sporadic raids by small bands of Indians started. The cavalry promptly retaliated. Papa said the Snake War was a conflict between people who both saw the other as a threat to their homes and their way of life.

  "My father took Phin and two of our best hands, just in case. I'm sure they'll be fine," Amy said, willing it to be so.

  "How are your parents doing?"

  Amy stiffened. Most people asked about her parents just so they could gossip about them afterward. Not Hannah. Hannah never criticized Mama for teaching school even though she was a married woman or Papa for letting Amy ride around in pants. When other girls whispered and laughed at Amy, Hannah never joined in.

  "They're fine," Amy said.

  "Listen, we want to build a new barn before we bring in the first crop of hay this year." Hannah looked at her husband. "You think your papa could help Josh lay the foundation when he's back from Fort Boise?"

  Amy nodded. Papa never said no when a neighbor needed help. "I'll let him know. If he's not back in time, the rest of the family will be over to help."

  "Thank you." Hannah gave her a soft squeeze.

  Amy glanced at the hand on her arm. Her skin tingled where Hannah touched her, and Amy clamped her teeth together. "I better go." She pointed at the dry-goods store. "Mama gave me a list as long as my arm."

  "Come over and visit soon," Hannah said. "We used to spend so much time together, and now I never see you anymore."

  With a noncommittal nod, Amy hurried away.

  The bell over the door jingled as Amy entered. Familiar smells of licorice, leather, and vinegar tickled her nose.

  "Amy Hamilton! Come over here and let me look at you!" Jacob Garfield said from behind the long counter. "Haven't seen you in some time. How are you doing?"

  "Keeping busy," Amy said.

  Jacob pointed at the door. "You just missed Hannah. My daughter says she hasn't seen you in a while either. I remember a time when you two were joined at the hip." He chuckled.

  Amy fixed her gaze on racks of sewing thread and embroidery floss in front of her. "Things change when you grow up," she said. "But I promised to help Hannah and Josh with their barn." Before Jacob could ask more questions, she handed her list over the counter.

  Jacob turned and measured out a pound of salt. "You wanna take a look at the dresses while you wait? I hear there's gonna be a wedding at the Hamilton outfit soon."

  Word traveled fast in a small town like Baker Prairie.

  With little interest, Amy's gaze slid over new skirts and dresses, ribbons, and bolts of fabric laid out on a long table to catch the ladies' attention. "No, thank you." A new dress worn only to church was a waste of hard-earned money. Her Sunday dress would do for the wedding.

  Jacob heaved a sack of flour onto the counter and piled the rest of Amy's order on top. Finally, he opened a big glass jar and scooped lemon drops into a small paper bag. He'd done that since Amy had been a little girl, coming into the store with her parents, and she always shared her bounty with Papa.

  But now he was gone, and the lemon drops and the responsibility for the ranch were hers.

  When Amy reached for the sack of flour to heave it onto her shoulder, Jacob stared at her with wide eyes. "Oh, no, leave that here. I'll have Wayne bring it out to your buckboard."

  Amy bit the inside of her cheek. Was he trying to be a gentleman, or did he think the Hamiltons were uncivilized, just because her papa never told her she couldn't carry a sack of flour? Amy liked the freedom he gave her, but visits to town made her painfully aware how different she was from other young women.

  A few minutes later, she said good-bye to Jacob and left the dry-goods store.

  Rain still fell steadily, but Amy ignored it. Across the street, two young men left the saddle maker's shop and glanced at her. One of them said something, and the other laughed and looked at Amy again.

  Amy swished her skirts and marched away. She gazed at the stage depot, but the street was still empty. The stage hadn't arrived yet, so Amy was stuck in town.

  She shuffled her feet and glanced down. Damn! Mud crusted her lace-up boots. Knocking her heels together didn't help. Instead of dislodging mud and manure, she sent spatters all over her skirt.

  Every minute that she waited made her more aware of her not very ladylike appearance. She glanced at the sun, half-hidden behind a pile of gray clouds. The stage was late. When working with horses, Amy had her father's patience, but she would rather wait for a horse to trust her than for some woman who married herself off to a stranger.

  Grumbling, she popped a lemon drop into her mouth. The sweet sourness prickled along her tongue. Had Mama remembered to hide some candy as a surprise for Papa in his saddlebags? Then, with a grunt, she spat out the candy. The stagecoach would arrive any moment, and it wouldn't do to greet Phin's betrothed with a bulging cheek.

  A high-pitched squeal drew her attention toward the livery stable's corral. On their ranch, Amy had never heard a horse make a sound like that.

  Her feet moved toward the corral before she could stop to think.
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br />   The two men from the saddle maker's shop blocked her view, and Amy shouldered past them. The urge to help the horse propelled her forward.

  Half a dozen men drove a trembling grulla — a gray horse with a black stripe on her back — into one corner of the corral. Ropes flew at the horse from all directions.

  The mare threw her head back, her eyes white-rimmed with fear. She pranced to the right, and when another man cut her off, she tried to escape to the left.

  A loop snaked around one of her legs, and another rope fell down around her neck, choking her. With one quick pull, the horse crashed into the mud.

  Men jumped on her and held her down.

  The mare squealed and kicked.

  One man rammed both knees into her side to keep her from moving while another bit down on the horse's ear.

  Amy's fingers clamped around the corral rail. No, no, no, she wanted to shout. Didn't they understand that the mare was fighting for her life? For the mare, this was a vicious attack by a pack of predators. How could they expect cooperation?

  Two of the men blindfolded the mare with a cloth while others wrestled a saddle on her and thrust a bit into her mouth. Then a young man climbed into the saddle. With a big "whoop" of excitement, as if it was all great fun, they snatched the blindfold away and sprang back from the horse.

  The mare leaped and bucked, reared and twisted, kicked and arched her back. Her front legs slashed through the air, and for a moment, Amy feared she would flip over backward. But her hooves came down. The mare ducked her head and kicked out her hind legs.

  The broncobuster catapulted over her head and splashed into the mud.

  Part of Amy wanted to rejoice, but she knew this was far from over. If no one else had the courage to climb on the horse, they would hobble the mare to the snubbing post in the middle of the corral, where she might break her leg or choke to death by getting tangled in the rope. They would leave her standing there on three legs, without water or food. Then, hours later, they would untie her and another man would climb on and buck her out until the horse had no fight left in her.

  Amy had seen it often on the ranches and farms in the neighborhood. She couldn't stand watching it again.

  Without hesitation, she ducked between two corral rails.

  "Hey!" A man gripped her arm. "What are you doing? This is no place for a woman. If you want to watch, do it from outside the corral."

  Amy narrowed her eyes and glowered at the hand on her arm. "I don't want to watch."

  The man scratched his head. "What are you doing, then?"

  "That's Amy Hamilton, Buzz," someone shouted.

  The hand withdrew from Amy's arm. "So your father is Luke Hamilton, the horse rancher?" Buzz asked. "You wanna buy the horse?"

  Amy started to shake her head, about to tell him she had no money, but then stopped. In her pocket, she felt the two half eagles Phin had given her for his new bride. After a moment's hesitation, she fished them out of her pocket and let Buzz glance at the two five-dollar gold pieces.

  "The horse is worth at least twice that much," Buzz said, but Amy recognized the spark of greed in his eyes.

  "If I can ride her, will you give me the mare for the ten dollars?" she asked. It was crazy. The mouse-colored mare was not a beautiful horse. With the dorsal stripe on her back and the faint stripes on her legs, she wasn't fit to be bred to an Appaloosa stallion. Still, Amy couldn't leave the mare to her fate.

  Buzz exchanged glances with his friends, including the broncobuster who was now getting up, spitting out mud and one of his front teeth. "All right," he said. "But if you can't ride her, I get the mare and the ten dollars. Deal?"

  Amy's lips twitched. She wanted to spit at the hand he held out, but she kept herself in check and shook his hand instead. "Deal. Now give me some room to work. Please," she added after a moment. Out on the ranch, the boys were used to taking orders from her, mainly because they knew Papa would back them up. But in town, no man would ever accept her as an equal.

  The men climbed over the corral rails, and that was the last time Amy looked at them. From now on, nothing existed in the world beyond her and the mare.

  The grulla retreated into one corner of the corral. Sweat and rain darkened her gray coat. Her flanks quivered, and her tail was clamped between her legs. She watched Amy with flared nostrils and pricked ears. When Amy strolled over, the mare ran.

  Amy followed, walking calmly but without hesitation. She ignored what the mud in the corral did to her lace-up boots.

  Again, the mare fled to the other end of the corral.

  Hundreds of times, Amy had watched their horses play the same game of catch. Measles and her daughters had been masters at this game. They chased away the other horses, sometimes by threatening a bite or kick, but mostly by stomping toward the horse. In a herd, the mare that could make the others move established herself as the leader.

  Amy had learned to do the same. Jutting her chin and squaring her shoulders, she marched toward the mare.

  The mare tossed back her head and looked beyond the corral fence for a place to flee.

  Wrong move.

  As long as the mare paid attention to anything but her, Amy kept driving her around the corral. She switched sides and slapped her thighs, making the startled mare swivel and sprint in the other direction.

  After a few rounds around the corral, one of the mare's ears flicked toward Amy. Another lap and the second ear followed.

  Amy relaxed her arms and stayed in the middle of the corral instead of moving toward the horse, taking off some of the pressure.

  The frantic racing around the corral slowed.

  "Come on, Joe," a man shouted to his friend. "Let's go. This is getting boring."

  Fools. If the horse isn't terrified and the broncobuster doesn't lose a few teeth, they aren't interested.

  The mare's circles around Amy became smaller and smaller until she turned her head to look at Amy. She chewed on the unfamiliar bit in her mouth.

  Good. Chewing signaled that the mare was starting to relax. In response, Amy softened her own body.

  Two more rounds and the mare's head lowered, and she sniffed the ground while she walked.

  It was a sign of her beginning trust in Amy. A horse that dropped its head couldn't look out for predators.

  Finally, the mare stopped in the corner where she had been when Amy had first seen her.

  Her safety spot. Amy made note of it. She could use it to work with her.

  Amy stepped back and half turned, showing the mare her shoulder instead of her front. She had seen lead mares do the same when they allowed another horse into the herd.

  The mare took a single step but then stopped and snorted at Amy.

  Curiosity gleamed in the big brown eyes, but the stiffness in her neck signaled that she wasn't ready to approach Amy.

  All right. Crooning soft words, she walked toward the mare's shoulder. She moved slowly, but without hesitation. It wouldn't do to sneak up on the mare like a predator on the hunt.

  The mare stood stiff-legged, her ears twitching.

  Amy stopped an arm's length away.

  With wide nostrils, the mare sucked in her scent.

  Calmly, Amy touched the mare's shoulder, just for the length of a heartbeat. Then she took her hand away. "See?" she whispered. "Getting touched doesn't hurt."

  When the mare didn't move away, Amy scratched the stiff neck and around the withers, the way she had seen horses groom each other. Her hands slid over the mare's wet flanks, then down to her belly. She flapped the stirrups around, letting the mare know that the bouncing thing on her back was not a mountain lion out to kill her.

  After a few minutes of retreating and advancing, the big body relaxed under her hand. Amy reached for the mud-crusted reins. When the horse pranced away, she stayed with her.

  "Easy, easy, girl." She smoothed her fingers into the horse's mane and grabbed a strand. When she moved to put one foot in the stirrup, she remembered that she wasn't wearing pant
s. Mama had even made her wear a dress instead of the split skirt she usually wore to town. In a dress, she could either ride sidesaddle or pull up the skirt and petticoats to straddle the horse — which would give the audience a good, long look at her legs.

  Amy shivered. No, thanks. She didn't want to give Buzz that kind of buzz. She reached down and, using a tear in the hem of her skirt, ripped the checkered fabric until she had enough freedom of movement.

  She slid her left foot into the stirrup and slowly, without bouncing, rose up until some of her weight rested on the stirrup.