He wasn’t grinning an hour later when Freddy’s horse stopped hard and she sailed over the horse’s head. If the ground hadn’t been softened by the rain, she would have broken her neck. Swearing steadily, he walked over to her, mud sucking at his boots, and looked down. “Get up.”
“I can’t. I’m dead.” She lay on her back, rain streaking the mud on her face.
“Is anything broken?”
“It feels like every bone in my body is broken. And frozen.”
He heard Grady shout, “Well, God damn.” Before the words were out of his mouth, Les flew through the air and hit hard right in front of Dal’s feet. She landed face first and slowly pushed to her hands and knees, spitting mud and shaking. At least they were alive. And he didn’t notice any bones poking out of their clothing.
“I detest you,” Freddy said in a thoughtful voice, as if she’d thought about it and reached the only possible conclusion. She was still flat on her back, staring up at him.
“I know it, and that’s starting to piss me off. This was your pa’s idea, not mine.” He extended his hand to yank her up, but she refused his assistance. “I’m making this as easy as I can. That isn’t a longhorn you’re working with, it’s a milk cow, for God’s sake. And you two have the best-trained horses in south Texas. I don’t know what else I can do.”
Grady stormed up beside him. “You women ain’t gonna be happy until you done give me a heart attack! How many times do I got to tell you. Keep your eyes on the cow! Stop looking at the horse. The horse is going to follow the cow, damn it. All you got to do is keep your butts in the saddle and hang on. Now why is that so dad-blamed hard?”
“Thank you for asking if we’re hurt,” Les moaned, tears rolling through the mud caked on her face. “We sure do appreciate your concern.”
“I know you’re hurt, damn it.” Grady reached down and jerked her up on her feet. “Do you think you’re the first to learn cutting? The first to go peddling over a horse’s head?” He spit a stream of tobacco juice. “Now get your butts mounted and go find that cow you done scared off. Drive her back here to where I’m standing, hear me? Shoot fire, I hate working with women!”
Freddy dragged herself out of the mud and hunched over, turning in a circle and groaning. “I’m cold and wet and I hurt all over. I hate this, I just can’t stand it.”
“The day after tomorrow,” Dal said grimly, “you’re going to work a longhorn.”
Both women stiffened and stared at him. The only parts of them that weren’t coated with mud were their horrified eyes.
“Hopefully, you’ll live through the experience. And after that, we’re going to start some target shooting.”
One of them screamed when he walked away, but he didn’t look around to see which one.
He rode back to the ranch and around the side of the house. Slumping in his saddle, feeling rain drip off his hat brim and down his collar, he watched Alex.
She was on the ground, trying to coax a flame to life beneath an umbrella. If possible, she was muddier than her sisters. If he hadn’t known she was wearing black, he wouldn’t have been able to guess the color of her attire for the mud coating it. As he watched, she shook wet clods from her hands, blew on cold fingers, then bent over the firewood again. If a woman could curse with her eyes, then she was cussing up a storm. He rode away when he spotted a flicker of orange and heard her shout in weary triumph.
He had to stop worrying about the Roark sisters being prepared and ready for the drive. They never would be. But if he wanted a chance at his future, he had to take them along anyway.
First, he had to see Lola.
The rain had stopped by the time Dal presented himself at Lola’s door, bathed, barbered, and dressed in clean trousers, vest, and jacket, and a string tie. Starlight reflected in the puddles, and the evening air smelled like spring. He’d have been tempted to think it a fine evening if he hadn’t been standing on Lola Fiddler’s stoop, and if he hadn’t been sober.
She opened the door herself and stood looking at him with a half smile curving her rouged lips. The light behind her revealed a plumper silhouette than he recalled, but the added curves only enhanced her charms. Lola was no spring chicken, but she worked at being a woman that men looked at twice, and most men did. Age was making inroads, but she was putting up a fight.
“Well, well,” she said in the husky voice he remembered. Leaning forward, not caring if a neighbor watched, she kissed his cheek. “Think you’re going to need that peashooter?” she asked, smiling at the holster slung around his hips.
“I ought to shoot you right now.”
“Why, Dal honey.” She opened the door wider. “Is that any way to speak to a poor grieving widow?”