“You use those items to make son of bitch stew. It’s a favorite with the drovers,” Dal said, looking up as Luther and Caldwell’s wagon returned to camp from a trip into San Antonio. “The tube linking a longhorn’s stomachs gives the stew a distinctive flavor,” he added absently.
She imagined it did. Alex gripped the handle of her crutch until her knuckles turned white, and her stomach rolled as she thought about touching a stomach tube, or cooking it, or, God forbid, eating such a revolting thing. When she opened her eyes, Dal had gone, walking toward the returning wagon, but Grady still leaned against her worktable, watching her curiously.
“You ain’t one of those prisses with a delicate stomach, are you?”
She knew the origins of stewed chicken and bacon and pot roasts, but she’d never been subjected to the starting point of wringing the actual chicken’s neck, dealing with a pig, or skinning a steer. Lord. Now she was going to have to touch and cook pieces of a steer that ought to be buried in the ground and forgotten.
“I really hate being here.” She had compromised everything she had believed she stood for.
In the few short weeks that she had been relying on the crutch, it had become indispensable, and she detested that. Being mobile again was a betrayal of Payton. She hated cooking, it was a task for a menial, and she loathed everything it entailed. And she despised washing dishes that seemed to multiply into an endless number of dirty cups and plates.
She hated sleeping on the ground near snoring men, some of whom slept in their long johns, hated the lack of privacy, hated performing her toilette at dawn, hated careening over the range fearing for her life. She hated and dreaded those moments alone in the middle of nowhere before Grady arrived with the remuda.
Most of all, she hated having no one to talk to.
Freddy’s competitiveness was exhausting, but Alex responded to it, which made Freddy one of the last people Alex would admit fear to. If she tried to talk to Les, she’d end up reassuring Les and find no assurance herself. Grady expected her to take everything in stride and was annoyed by any show of weakness. Dal was too busy for idle chat. The drovers were so far beneath her that talking to them about anything other than what went into their stomachs was unthinkable. She didn’t like Ward Hamm or Jack Caldwell.
That left Luther Moreland, who was walking toward her now, carrying a box of eggs he’d purchased in San Antonio. She had known Luther for years, and he was a presentable man, but too shy for easy conversation. A sigh lifted her chest. The aching loneliness she was experiencing on this terrible journey was a taste of what she could expect for the rest of her life.
“I brought you some fresh eggs,” Luther said, placing the box on her worktable. “They’re packed in sand. I wish I could have found more, but there are more saloons in San Antonio than henhouses. Still, you’ll have enough for a couple of breakfasts.”
“Thank you.” She started cleaning her area, putting away dishes and cups, irritated when Dal returned and took a clean cup that she would have to wash later.
“Did you notice if Caldwell met up with Lola in San Antonio?” he asked Luther.
“I believe he did, yes,” Luther said uncomfortably.
Dal squinted toward Freddy and Les, and Alex thought she could guess what he was thinking. They had lost two more steers. Three days into a drive, and they had already lost eight animals. Undoubtedly Lola and Jack were celebrating a promising beginning.
“How many miles did we make today?” Now that she’d seen a stampede, Freddy wasn’t anxious to see another. Dal didn’t have to remind her to keep her voice low.
“Not enough with the late start we got. Nine miles, maybe ten.”
She hated to admit it, but she would miss him and the scent of his cigars when he stopped sharing her night shift. There was another thing she wasn’t eager to concede, but she owed him. “Les and I worked together skinning the steers. It was a horrible, nasty chore and…” She bit off describing a task she wanted to forget and hoped never to have to do again. “Anyway. We decided to work together on the drag, and we didn’t lose any steers today.” She paused, then admitted the rest. “We probably would have lost a couple if we hadn’t helped each other.”
“The cimarrones are settling in. You’ll have an occasional steer who wants to head back to the bedding grounds, but the worst should be over now. For the most part, your job is to keep the laggards moving. And eat dust.” A grin sounded in his voice.
His matter-of-fact tone annoyed her. She’d expected him to praise her and Les for deciding to work together and stop splitting their territory in half. But of course he didn’t know what a huge concession it was for her and Les to trust each other and try to work together.
They completed a full turn around the herd before either of them spoke again.
“Was that the only line of Shakespeare you know?” Freddy asked. She’d been wrestling this question all day, wondering. Staring in his direction, she watched the end of his cigar flare briefly, then move away from his lips.