“I don’t know if you’re a Calder.” Benteen looked him up and down. “But you’d better be able to fight like one, because you’re taking me on. You’ve got a helluva lot to learn, boy. You might do all right in a stand-up fight. What happens when it’s down and dirty?”
The challenge was a figurative one and Webb knew it, but his combative fever was running high. Physical violence would have been a welcome release for his anger. So Webb responded to the taunt with a half-serious invitation.
“Why don’t you and me tangle right here? We’d settle that question real quick,” he declared.
The prospect seemed to amuse his father in an arrogant kind of way. “Are you sure you don’t want to wait until your wound has completely healed and you’ve got more of your strength back?”
“No. I figure it would put us at an equal advantage, ’cause you’re old and slow,” Webb countered.
“Fists never win as many fights as brains do. You’re thinking with your gut right now, boy. And that isn’t the way to get this ranch from me,” his father stated. “All you’re doing right now is proving to me that you don’t deserve it. You talk big, but you haven’t shown me anything.”
“We’ll see about that.” Webb agreed that no more could be accomplished with words. He swung away from his father and let his long strides carry him from the room.
Benteen watched him from the center of the room. He stood tall and straight, his big bones fleshed out and his dark hair frosted with gray. The expression of anger and taunting challenge that had been on his strong-lined face gave way to pride, and the gleam in his brown eyes misted over with tears. A second after he heard the sound of a pair of boots climbing the stairs, Lorna came hurrying into the room.
“What happened?” She searched his face, expecting the worst after the angry, shouting voices she’d heard and the way Webb had come charging out of the room. “Webb isn’t leaving the ranch?”
“No.” He reached out to take her in his arms and gather her against his chest. He rested his chin atop her head and closed his eyes, trembling relief and gratitude all mixing together. “I finally have my son.”
“I don’t understand.” Lorna shifted in his hold and tipped her head back to look at him.
“He’s going to fight me to get the ranch.” Benteen was smiling. “I called him in here tonight to tell him he wouldn’t inherit it.”
“Benteen!” She was shocked at the statement, and more than a little angry.
“I had no choice.” He defended his decision calmly now that he knew the outcome. “Up till now, he hadn’t shown me he gave a damn about it. Deep down, I think I was hoping he would react the way he did, but Webb has disappointed me so many times.”
“But what happens now?” Lorna didn’t see how it was going to work.
“Go up to his room, but don’t say that I sent you,” Benteen told her. “Tell him that a ranch this size has never been successfully run from a bunkhouse. And tell him that if he expects to have any authority, he’s going to have to take it—and it isn’t just a matter of giving orders. It’s taking charge.”
18
Once he had cooled down, it hadn’t taken Webb long to figure out that he’d played right into his father’s hand. But there was a difference. They weren’t playing against each other. They were partners.
On the first day of spring roundup, the morning gather of bawling cattle was bunched about a hundred yards away from the chuckwagon where the bulk of the cowboys had collected. Webb was standing a little off to himself, not joining in with the men and trying to be one of them.
The branding fires were hot, the irons lying in them, ready for an afternoon’s work. Webb swirled the coffee liquid and dregs in his cup, mixing them together before drinking the black and bitter stuff.
In a curious flash of memory, he recalled another cup of coffee he’d drunk on a stormy night and the auburn-haired woman who had poured it for him. His thoughts turned to Lilli at odd times, coming to him without warning and stabbing him with their futility. She had said no to him. And the very fact that she hadn’t attempted to contact him or make any inquiry about him told Webb she hadn’t changed her mind. She intended to stay with the man she had married. Even though he had thrown all his energies into the ranch, he still couldn’t forget her.
He shook out the last drop of coffee and wandered over to the wagon to toss his cup into the wreckpan, aware the men were waiting for his signal to start the afternoon’s work. But he paused there to light a cigarette, not making a move toward the saddled and fresh horses. In addition to Triple C riders, there were reps from other outfits on hand to claim strayed cattle and drive them back to their home ranges.
Nate ambled over to throw his plate and cup into the wreckpan, then paused to stand with Webb. “Sure feels good to be back on the payroll again after bein’ flatbusted all winter.” He took out his tobacco and papers to roll himself a cigarette. “Well, boss, are you about ready to slap down a few calves?”
“Soon enough.” Webb smiled faintly at the term signifying his authority. It didn’t grate as he thought it would.
The majority of the riders, especially the older hands, had regarded his step-up with silent approval, even though they were watching to see how he’d do. Webb didn’t mind that, either, because it meant he’d be earning their respect—and they were going to expect more from him than they would from one of their own. It was crazy that he hadn’t looked at it that way before.
Maybe he’d finally grown up. Maybe it had taken losing some of that hot blood of youth and getting cracked over the head. It was for certain a lot of hard lessons had been learned. He had wanted Lilli and Lilli had wanted him, but that hadn’t made it right. Knowing that didn’t make it any easier, but at least he was beginning to accept it.
He was doing it again—thinking about Lilli instead of concentrating on the business at hand. His glance ran to Nate, observing the miserly way he licked the tobacco paper together, conserving his spit for the long, dusty afternoon ahead of them. Roundups were brutal on a cowboy. Rain or shine, he worked every day until his muscles were too weary to know the difference, and never got enough sleep. It would be a grueling six weeks or longer.
“Why don’t you smoke ready-mades and save yourself all that work, Nate?” Webb asked.
“I don’t smoke as much this ways—and it’s cheaper,” he added the decisive factor. He squinted through the swirl of smoke at the cowboy sauntering toward them.
Hobie Evans was not one of his favorite people. Nate was of the opinion that Ed Mace could have chosen a better representative for his Snake M brand—but then, he didn’t have much time for Ed Mace, either.