That did it. The next time she swung the rope, Chase ducked it and grabbed her wrist, wrenching the lariat from her grip with the other hand. When she tried to hit at him with her free hand, he captured it, too. Her head was thrown back to glare up at him, her breath coming in short, angry spurts.
“You crazy little spitfire, stop it!” Chase shook her hard once. “If you don’t start behaving yourself, I’m going to use this rope on your backside.”
Her eyes dared him to try. “Give me my rope,” she ordered.
The heat of anger—or something equally as violent—was running through his veins. Chase didn’t take time to sort it out. All his muscles were coiling into tight bands, a raw tension building inside of him and seeking an outlet.
“Maggie!” Angus O’Rourke came striding up to take the matter out of Chase’s hands. “What on earth were you doing, girl?” Chase released her into his custody and took a wary step away. “Now you are going to apologize to Mr. Chase Calder for making him look like a fool in front of all these men,” Angus ordered.
Chase didn’t feel the last phrase was necessary. It was a little man’s dig at the public humiliation of a big rancher’s son. His jaw hardened as the girl’s eyes swept the onlooking group of riders before returning to him with a taunting gleam. A nerve twitched along his cheekbone, the only visible indication of his inner feelings.
“Tell him you’re sorry,” her father urged.
Chase knew she wasn’t a damned bit sorry, and neither was O’Rourke. He wouldn’t accept an apology forced from her. “Let it ride, O’Rourke,” he mumbled, and walked to his horse.
Buck was on the ground, holding the reins to both his and Chase’s mount. He handed the latter to Chase, his blue eyes dancing with wicked mischief. Buck said nothing, wise to the taut control Chase was exercising over his anger.
While Chase mounted, the girl had turned her back to him and was winding her black hair into a coil to fit under the tall crown of her hat. With that accomplished, she swung into her saddle and rode off with her father, not glancing again in Chase’s direction.
“You sure did have your hands full with that wildcat,” Buck commented, deciding a safe amount of time had passed. “What set her off, anyway?”
“I rubbed her the wrong way,” Chase replied coldly.
“Buck!” There was no mistaking the commanding voice of Webb Calder. He rode his horse into the center of the riders. “You heard my order this morning. No swearing in front of the girl. You are on foot the rest of the day.” The punishment was severe for someone like Buck, who thrived on the excitement of horse and rope.
“Hell, it just slipped out!” Buck protested.
“Two days on foot. It slipped out again.”
“What?” Buck gave a vivid display of incredulous astonishment, his arms lifted from his sides in a gesture of innocence. “She can’t hear me, not from clear over there!”
“Three days. That’s for arguing.” Webb never backed down. He was harder on those he liked. Lifting the reins, he started to turn his horse.
Buck’s hands moved to his hips as he shook his head in disgust. “Shi—”
The word was never finished as Webb Calder turned back. “Do you want me to make it four days, Buck?”
He swept the dusty black Stetson from his hand and threw it to the ground. “Sweet jumpin’ jehosaphats!” Buck expelled the words in a rush.
A smile cracked the sternness of Webb Calder’s expression. “Now you’ve got the idea, Buck.” Touching a heel to the horse’s flank, he started it forward.
“Three d
ays,” Buck grumbled.
“I’ll take your horse back to the remuda.” Nate Moore edged his horse up and reached down to grab the trailing reins.
When Chase started to ride away, Buck caught at his bridle to stop him. “Put a word in with your old man. I didn’t do anything to deserve three days.”
“Speak to him yourself.” Chase knew better than to ask a personal favor from his father. Buck knew the rules, but he always believed there was a way around them.
Returning to the herd, Chase took his place while O’Rourke finished his cut. It was a slow business due to the small rancher’s lack of trained horseflesh and the inordinate number of strays in the herd. Any one of a dozen Triple C cowboys could have finished it in a third less time, and all of them were itching to do so, including Chase, but without an order from his father, they sat in their saddles and watched. O’Rourke and his son worked the cows, while the girl held their gather some distance away, beyond the range of Chase’s vision, behind another one of those low rises in the deceptively flat-looking plains. Her image kept slipping into his mind, the coiling tightness within him never fully released.
The branding fires were hot when Angus rode through the herd the last time and found no more Shamrock cattle. He signaled to the ramrod Nate Moore that his cut was finished, and rode out from the Triple C herd. The impatient expressions of the riders indicated that his ineptness had caused an unnecessary delay. His mind had a ready excuse because he couldn’t afford the high-priced cutting horses they rode. Never once did O’Rourke consider the hours of training that went into making such an animal, hours he wouldn’t spend trying to improve the ability of his grade horses.
Angus knew that the delay would work to his advantage, so he convinced himself the slowness had been deliberate. If the Calders were impatient to get on with the work, he would be ignored as an irritating nuisance that was finally out of their way. While he was silently congratulating himself for being so intelligent, he filed away a mental reminder to explain to his son how cleverly he had planned everything.
Angus’ pleasure was fleeting, vanishing the instant he saw Webb Calder positioned between himself and the cattle Culley and Maggie were holding. His throat and mouth became dry, and he could feel his palms sweating. There was no choice but to ride up to Calder. Silently, Angus cursed that the man had no right to sit there like some goddamned king expecting everyone to tremble before him.