“I don’t want to hear it,” she said. But she veered away from the house and walked toward the old magnolia tree.
Jack followed, tossing his hat and catching it. “Fancy honey, you knew from the first that I’m a gambling man. I have to bet on the filly most likely to cross the finish line. Much as I’d like that to be you, well…” He shrugged. “But that don’t mean we can’t be friends.”
“How long were you seeing her?” Freddy asked, leaning against the magnolia tree and folding her arms across her chest. It put her at a disadvantage to know how bad she looked, but there was nothing she could do about it. “Did you start seeing Lola before Pa died? Were you seeing both of us at the same time?”
“Now, you don’t really want to know about all that.”
He was right. A wave of anger colored her cheeks as she realized she knew the answer. She had suspected he was seeing other women while he was wooing her; she just hadn’t imagined that one of them might be her father’s wife.
He came up beside her, bringing the scent of hair oil and barbershop and wearing his most charming smile. “Fancy? Now don’t give me that look. We had some good times. No reason we can’t have some more.”
Suddenly she understood. Choosing Lola wasn’t about romance, not with Jack. For him it was always the jackpot. Romancing Lola had to do with Pa’s money and who would get it and how he could deal himself in for a share. She had ridiculed Les for being blind to Ward Hamm’s greediness, but she had closed her eyes to the same thing in Jack. He wanted Pa’s money, and he was willing to accept whichever woman came with it.
Stiffening, she stared at him for a long moment, then she tossed back her hair and walked toward the back door. “Go to hell, Jack. And stay away from me during the drive.”
She didn’t know which hurt more. That he’d traded her for Lola, or that all he cared about was the money.
The way to punish him for betting wrong was to make sure that he and Lola never got their hands on Pa’s fortune. Unfortunately, in her heart she suspected they had an excellent chance of winning. Right now she didn’t feel confident about anything.
“I don’t see why I have to learn to shoot a pistol, Mr. Frisco,” Alex complained. Narrowing her gaze, she squinted at the bales of hay he had set up as a target. “I am never going to shoot at anything, so this is a waste of time.” She was sick to death of trying to learn new impossible things. Weary of battering her pride against new failures, day after day after day. Dismayed, she looked at the pistol in her hand, surprised by the weight of it.
“I’m in no mood for diplomacy, Alex.” Frisco planted his fists on his hips. “We’re going to start trailing in about ten days and not one of you is close to being ready.”
Les looked up from the pistol she was gingerly holding as if it were something vile. “Mr. Hamm is going to be angry when he hears the drovers calling us by our first names.” After sliding an anxious glance toward the barn, she returned to inspecting her weapon.
“There are too many Miss Roarks around here. We’re going to use first names.” Knots rose along Dal Frisco’s jaw and an explosion threatened in his expression. “And we are going to pick up the pace,” he said sharply. “Ladies, tomorrow and from now on, you are going to saddle and unsaddle your own horses.”
“What?” Freddy and Les said in unison.
“You’ll also learn how to make up your bedrolls and pack them, and how to set up a tent in case of bad weather. And you’re going to work at holding together a small herd of longhorns.” He turned stormy eyes to Alex. “Tomorrow, you are going to prepare breakfast for the household, then drive six miles that way”—he pointed a finger toward the open range—“where you are going to prepare a noon meal before you drive the wagon back here and fix supper.”
She hated him. He paid them no respect, treated them like hired help, and he demanded too much. Feeling half-crazed inside, she set the brake on her chair, then lifted the pistol and fired wildly, venting her frustration at the hay bales. Freddy and Les looked at her, looked at each other, and then they, too, fired. Noise and smoke flashed around her, but Alex didn’t think a single shot among the hail of bullets struck the hay bales. She didn’t care. She fired until all her bullets were gone and the hammer clicked down on empty.
“Stop!” Frisco shouted into a sudden silence. Sweeping off his hat, he threw it on the ground, shook his head, and swore for a full minute. Then he sucked in a deep breath, held it, and finally expelled the air slowly. “All right. You have now fired a pistol and sent bullets flying all over this damned ranch. Now, we will learn about a six-shooter, how to load it and clean it, and then we will try again—and the next time we will fire it correctly.”