“As any friend would do.” He leaned a manicured hand against the doorjamb. “Have I offended you in some way, thatyou can’t share a meal with me in a public café in broad daylight?”
She blew out a breath.
He pinned her with his devouring gaze. “Was I not a perfect gentleman when I called at your house? Were you tortured by our time spent playing chess and conversing?”
She folded her arms. “You were, and I wasn’t. But Ben and I have an understanding now.”
“What kind of understanding?”
“That we’re going to start courting.”
Anahavictory smile lit his face. “Don’t you have to wait for his return?”
“I’m sorry, but I can’t have dinner with?—”
“One last meal together. That’s all I ask. Once he returns and your courtship has officially started, I promise to not even glance your way unless you call upon me. You owe me nothing either way for the bill. I’ll instruct Mrs. Ruddy to not accept your money. I never charged you for my care for your father either. I won’t start now.”
“Why didn’t you ever charge us?” She blinked up into the eyes of…what? A snake-oil salesman, a flatterer, or a man who actually cared?
His smile turned sad as he reached for his hat. “Because, my dear lady, you have captivated me from the moment I first saw you. And I could tell that life had treated you unfairly.”
She stared at him. How was she supposed to reply to that?
He donned his hat and opened the door. “Shall we go?” He held out his arm.
An hour in a café or the finest love sonnets Shakespeare had ever written wouldn’t make a difference. Arthur had lost his suit the night Ben had taken her into his arms.
CHAPTER 30
Ben gripped the worn railing of the Weatherford stockyard fence and hung his head. Forty-five longhorns out of three hundred and fifty. That’s all he had left to call his own. The realization had dropped him to his knees in the mire of the mud flats as he’d gazed in horror at the gut-wrenching scene eight days ago.
If only he could stuff cotton in his ears and block out the moos. That might work here for the cattle in front of him, but nothing could suppress the moans that haunted him from the night at the pond and the day after. Dead cattle. Bellies bloated. Not all of the casualties had been from the water. There were also the ones who’d severely injured a leg or two in the mad dash down the slope and lay lame, unable to walk. Ben and his crew had dealt bullets of mercy as the only option.
They’d been left with more meat than a cowboy could carry or preserve. A waste. Wasted effort, wasted funds, wasted hopes and dreams.
He’d sent a pack mule loaded with meat along with Juan who trailed Eagle Ed behind his horse on a travois—payment to the trader five miles down the Pecos who agreed to take Ed in. Perhaps the trader’s Kiowa wife would be able to nurse Ed backto health. Legs crushed by stampeding hooves, Ed would likely never walk again.
Ben scrubbed his hand down his face. He’d given Dan charge of ten cattle for Ed and a longhorn each for him and Juan. He’d paid Devon and Morning Fawn five and given one to the man from Ramsey’s place. A man paid with what he had when his pockets were empty.
Ben’s shoulders sank. He should have never started on the drive with only Ed to guide him. He should have waited for Goodnight to return, taken a gamble that the rancher would make a drive before fall. He should have…
Laudanum. The whisper sent a shiver through him. His mouth watered. He’d been fighting it for ten days, the itch under his skin that crawled up his spine and pulsed in his brain. If he could only have a taste, just a taste, it’d ease the misery, pull him out of the pit, for just an hour or two, but that would be enough.
No. He curled his hands into fists. The rail wobbled as he pushed away from the corral. Plumes of dust rose as a wagon rattled by on the nearby road. One way led past the tannery and out of town, the other into the center of Weatherford.
When the livery stable owner and the stockyard manager had inquired about what happened on the trail, Ben shook his head. “Don’t ask.” If he were smart, he’d slip out of town, ride out to the ranch, and face Cora. How was he even going to begin to tell her how miserably he’d failed?
Money jingled in his pocket, payment for the cow he’d sold to the stockyard manager. Funds for living on. He needed to see Miller and reassure the man he’d be paid, before the rumors started to spread. His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. He’d need to save enough cash to pay his way back East. How else could he hope to provide for Cora and Charlie, and keep his word to Jeb? He wasn’t a rancher. The remnant of forty-five longhorns he’d brought back to the stockyard for Cora would only go so far.
The mid-July sun beat down on his grime-covered clothes. If he had money to spare, he’d pay for a bath and a shave, clean himself up so he’d look halfway respectable when he showed up at Cora’s to deliver the news. When he got to the ranch, he wouldn’t even go into the house. He’d tell Cora outside, then drag himself to the stable loft. He’d not sit through a meal with her beneath the weight of her disappointment in him.
Hands in his pockets, he trudged down the main street past a scattering of log and frame structures. He’d find a water pump, wash up there, and maybe take a meal at the café to bolster his strength. For two weeks, his rations had tasted like sawdust, and his stomach had cinched up tighter than a prune. He hung his head, barely tipping his hat to the passersby. The town square lay up ahead a few blocks with its two-story brick courthouse in the center.
Ben halted at the intersection by the clothiers. A buggy rumbled past on the side street, and a cargo wagon loaded with crates headed onto the main road. His gaze drifted to the slender green building. Every hair on his arms stood on end. The druggist. He couldn’t swallow. Just one little taste. A spoonful. Would it really do that much harm?
Sweat broke out on the back of his neck and his forehead. His feet turned down the side street. He’d stroll past. He wouldn’t stop. Passing a barbershop, a two-story wooden structure with no sign, and more, Ben walked on toward the well at the end of the street.
Hat off and hands trembling, he cranked the bucket up and doused his head. Water ran onto his shirt, streaking through the embedded dirt and grime. Rinsing his neckerchief in another bucket, he washed his face, neck, and hands, then ran his fingers through his hair, before donning his hat.
