Wind on the Plains - Closed Thread

Light Ice

A Real Bastard
Joined
Feb 12, 2003
Posts
5,395
Cast:

Henry Augustus McCoy, served 1861-1865 in the 3rd Kansas Volunteer Cavalry and later in the 2nd Jayhawkers Cavalry. Served from 1866 -1875 as a Texas Ranger. Age 31

Joshua Mills served 1862-1865 in the 1st Regiment Kansas Infantry Volunteers (Colored), and then later in 2nd Jayhawkers Cavalry. Rode with Henry McCoy from 1866 – 1875 as a Texas Ranger. 41 years old.

Old Judge William Grayson, served 1861-1865 in the 2nd Virginia Regiment under General Lee. Served 1866-1872 as Judge in Southern Texas. Ranch Owner. 56 years old.

Emma Grayson – The girl of his dreams.

Lane Bryant – Young Ranch hand working under the Old Judge. 18 years old.

Ben Carson – Cowboy for hire. Considered a top cattle drover. 22 years old.

Stony Willis – Cowboy for Hire. Considered a top cattle drover. 27 years old.

Tom Calloway – Land Agent, Cattleman and antagonist. 28 years old.

Mandida Valenjua – Mexican Bandit and Cattleman. Antagonist. 43 years old.


Introduction:
Henry McCoy had earned himself a considerable reputation in Kansas during the war and could have went along marshaling there with little trouble but it’d have meant leaving Joshua Mills behind. That would not stand with him. Joshua Mills would have understood, of course, but that didn’t play into it. Joshua Mills, a negro of 40 with short hair that had already gone white, was a man of impeccable character with whom he’d rode for the better part of the entirety of the war. So, it’d been natural to turn down the star they’d offered him and he had looked elsewhere. Three days later he’d heard that General Lane had shot himself on purpose after leaping from a wagon and died. Suicide, which seemed a most confusing way for the man’s life to end, was a grim omen to Mills. Mills had a reputation for being something of a superstitious man and had insisted he did not like the tide as he saw it. After little conversation McCoy had suggested they take themselves south to Texas and help against the Commanche and Kiowa who had taken to raiding the state savagely after being pressed south. Mills had found it agreeable, as McCoy had suspected he would, and the two had rode off.

They’d arrived in Texas at the end of 1865 and found themselves in the middle of another war. The Indians weren’t just raiding but butchering and Texas had precious little in the way of law or soldiers by which to combat it. Henry McCoy was once again offered a star and this time took it to become a Texas Ranger. He was but 20 years old. Mills, who was a negro, could not wear the star in Texas but was made an agent of the court all the same and would ride with him. It was not the most desired outcome for Henry but Mills was agreeable to it so it’d do. He would be paid wages of 20 dollars a week, equivalent to top wages, and Henry would draw 35. It was good money at the time by any lick of consideration particularly when you’d a chance to collect the substantial bounties in play.

Bushwhacking the likes of Quantrill’s Raiders and the black-hearted men who rode with Bloody Bill Anderson was something of an introduction to fighting the Indians. They were the best horsemen and most brave and wildly dangerous enemy that either he or Mills had ever seen. They had been terrors, unleashing all manners of hell to which neither had accounted as possible by men. Five years later and they both would talk in passing of how fortunate they were to still be alive and the tides had finally changed. As the Commanche and Kiowa slowly were beaten back Henry was made a Captain and the last five years of the campaign went along to the tune of legendary stands and ambushes by both sides. The Commanche surrendered in 1875, two days before Henry’s birthday, and he and Mills had survived the entire affair with only a handful of wounds between them. It was a lucky thing and they had known it. Captain Henry McCoy turned in his star and took with him a cash pension from the city of El Paso for his service. Joshua Mills was allowed to keep his horse and given 200 dollars cash money for being a loyal servant of the courts. It wasn’t generous by a white man’s standards but for a Negro it was the best they could have hoped for and Mills was not bitter for it. The world was the world and he’d never wished it changed. Joshua Mills was not an ungrateful man.

One of the Judges had suggested the pair head south to the Rio Grande and take up jobs as horsemen. McCoy had seen enough blood and Mills was fond of staying busy so they’d gone south to Eagle Pass and then a bit further to the small town of Eagle Creek. Any further south and they’d have been in Mexico, a decision both had decided against, and so they’d rooted there and met with the Old Judge to whom they’d been referred. He’d started a ranch after serving on the bench in Eagle Pass and doing his own service to the land. The Ranch had been his wife’s dream but she’d died of the consumption and left him with a little daughter and border ranch to take care of. He’d done alright – though the Ranch was not quite a prize by any stretch. They’d a few skinny beef cattle and a couple dairy cows along with a dozen threadbare ponies that weren’t much to look at. By the time it turned 1876 he and Mills had been there a year and proven themselves very reliable men.

Henry McCoy, called Captain at times by Mills alone and then later by all the hands at the ranch, had become the best hand on the ranch and shown a knack for breaking horses. Mills was as reliable and steady a worker as they came and neither of them groused or shirked a task or duty. Mills was the more talkative of the two but that wasn’t to suggest he was quick with his tongue. Like most negroes he preferred not to speak much and the only mention to it was by means to make example of just how quiet a man Henry McCoy actually was. The Old Judge and McCoy did well to keep the hands busy and the ranch had steadily grown to one of some repute. Henry McCoy was not a man who tolerated laziness or backtalking when it came to getting a job done.

Henry McCoy never took off his guns, seldom spoke, and preferred to keep his own company. These were habits he had kept since before the pair had become Texas Rangers and Joshua Mills had never asked him why or pushed the subject at all. Mills had always found the Captain a hard man to measure. Most folks he could run his eye over and know the full measure of them in a single passing. It was a gift of intuition to which he’d long been thankful. But when he looked at the Captain it was as though he seemed larger. The man was already six foot and one inch tall but he always seemed larger, stronger, and more severe. Mills did not consider McCoy an ordinary man and had stopped attempting to figure him further. The only other soul that McCoy ever spoke to besides Mills was the Old Judge. Those pair were fast to get along and kept one another’s council fairly often. The Old Judge had agreed to keep his knowledge of their earlier years in the war a secret, Mills knew that much because McCoy had told him so. The issue of their work in the Commanche wars already was public knowledge.

Henry McCoy had short dark hair and commonly kept a couple days of dark stubble on his jawbones. He was broad shouldered and the meat of him was built by slabs of muscle born of a life full of labors. He loved to work, sun up to sun down, each day. His eyes were pale blue, like ice in the Northern Territories. He dressed the part of a rancher save the guns he wore. His clothes were not extravagant but they were functional, well-made, and clean. He wore two big heavy-frame .45-70 revolvers in calf-hide holsters, butts forward in the cavalry style that hung from a cartridge threaded belt on his hips and down on his thighs. They had no rear sights and elegant, sandalwood grips that were beautifully fashioned and custom made. He also wore a long-barreled Schofield revolver on his chest in a sling holster. The rear sight had been partially filed down and its grip matched the bigger revolvers on his hips. He always kept a big-bore Winchester rifle in the scabbard on his saddle.

Mills, himself, carried a big bore Sharps rifle on his horse and a single Remington revolver that McCoy had made for him along with his pair. It had a jet black hilt and was a fine looking gun. It was a gift to which Mills had found himself deeply humbled and one that had been made by McCoy as though it was not a thing to be spoken of or to be thanked for. Henry McCoy, Mills knew, was not a man whom gave many gifts and would not have liked to have answered for it. The quiet life, the peaceful life, suited Mills better than McCoy. At night the Captain would rise from the small bunkroom they shared and saddle up the painted mare he’d caught running wild amongst the mesquite and bramble north of the Rio. It had no brand and was only but four years in the tooth. She was mean as could be and anyone else that came near her would marvel at her beauty and proclaim her a fine specimen of horse as could be found. But they wouldn’t go near her for she was a savage biter and had several times kicked at the Captain so hard it seemed likely if she landed one she’d kick his head clean off. Still, she was his favorite, and he’d gotten her to accept a saddle and most the time she didn’t try to buck him anymore. The taming of The Bad Daughter (a name the hands had come to give her) had earned Mills a hefty amount of coin as he’d been the only one to bet that the Captain would bring her to heel. It’d taken him time but in the end he’d come to an agreement with that horse. They’d walk the river at the southern edge of the Old Judge’s property and cut the sign, alert to enemies that didn’t really exist now.

The Commanche were well and gone. The bandits in Mexico who stole horses and ran them back, or cattle, were more or less quiet for the better part of the last three months. They avoided the Old Judge because he’d once made a rifle shot to which Mills could admire, and Mills was quite the shot with his Winchester. The Old Judge had been loping on his big black gelding when he’d fired his Sharps rifle and hit a Mexican attempting to make off with a string of ponies from the remuda. Mills had judged the shot around 500 yards with both the Judge and the Mexican moving quick. It’d been several months since the shot and they hadn’t strayed back since. Infact, nobody thought much of raids or thieving anymore, but Henry McCoy walked the river at night all the same. Truth was, as far as Mills saw it, the Captain just liked to keep his own company most the time.

----- - ------ ------- --------- --------

Henry McCoy, South Texas – Eagle Pass 1876

It was a cool night and behind him the low, squat house had lamps lit along the windows. He could hear the voices coming from inside even from his place by the river bank a few hundred yards away. The nights in South Texas held a hazy, inky darkness to them. There, amidst the scrub brush that grew along the steep bank, he relaxed some in his saddle and let his eyes stray across the swirling brown surface of the Rio and into Mexico beyond. Could it have ever have been said he missed the hard days? There’d been so much death back then that he supposed he didn’t. There were times he missed what it felt like to not know what the day would bring. In truth, though, he was grateful to be away from it all. He’d gotten himself something like fame in the land of Texas for his dust ups with the Commanche and Kiowa and in the end he’d gone right to the border to finally find a place where he could get himself left more or less alone.

He’d Mills to consider, also, though in the end he supposed the man was one of the few he’d ever met who didn’t need much looking after. Still, looking after him had been something of a habit and the man was still a negro. Many folks wouldn’t look past it. It wasn’t that he ever enjoyed leading but the truth is most men needed to be lead. Hell, back when he was Jayhawking, Henry could recall a certain soldier named Christophe Mighty who couldn’t have rightly told his left from the right. He’d been something of a disaster and prone to all measures of procrastination and laziness. That didn’t set him apart from some men, mind, but it was right unsightly for a soldier meant to bushwhack the likes of Quantrill’s band. Christophe Mighty had been killed by a big .56 caliber rifle shot in Tennessee over ten years ago. The round ball had blown a hole the size of a dinner plate through his back. It’d been a big damned mess.

Those had been hard days, he’d thought, and by the time he’d turned 20 he had learned what it was to kill a man and to have men beside him get killed. The next ten years only got harder as they stood their ground against the Commanche. He’d a healthy respect for the natives and their talents at war. He couldn’t help but wonder if they’d had muskets and rifles from the start if the White Man would have even made it off the coast. The fear of the Indian was a well-founded one in the territories. They were quiet and quick and knew the land better than most. Those advantages had proven deadly and it’d taken a long time for the Rangers to catch up. They had, though, and inevitably it was strength in numbers and arms that had done the Commanche and the Kiowa in.

Beneath him, brown and white painted, The Bad Daughter shifted her weight silently. These night rides had once been a touch and go affair. She was meaner than the ponies that been sold to the Old Judge by a half-dozen Mexican Riders who had somehow managed to fill their remuda with nearly a dozen Indian Horses that were all wild and too much to handle. Mostly, back and forth across the Rio, horses and cattle were stolen and restolen with such regularity it wasn’t unusual to steal back the same pony three times in a week. The Mexicans and Americans both played this out in the last few years since the Commanche had been licked but it’d quieted some now. The Old Judge was going to pass, more than a few of the indian ponies were mean-eyed amongst the lot but the Mexicans had given him soap shoe prices and in the end he’d been unable to turn it down. Especially when McCoy himself and Mills had told the Judge outright he should spend the money.

In that group of wild horses The Bad Daughter had been the meanest of the bunch. She bit and kicked any man that came near her and refused breaking for a good long while. In the end he’d won her, of course, but not before any other hand that made to help swore her off as the devil’s bitch and steered clear of her. To the day he was the only rider she’d tolerate and between them there was respect but seemed to be no love. Every now and again she tried to catch him distracted and pitch him to the ground, though those days were few and far now, and he’d have to ride it out of her. Still, she was sure-footed and faster than a greased cannonball and the finest horse he’d ever seen. Standing slightly taller than the average horse she was a powerful flanked, broad shouldered cow pony if he’d ever saw one. A paint horse of Indian Stock who needed less water and could ride farther, longer, than any mount he’d ever had. Her colors were a soft bay and paints splashes of white that covered half of her face and a star on the opposite eye.

She was the second most beautiful lady on the ranch in his eyes – the first being the Judge’s daughter. In truth he avoided the girl because she drove him to distraction. It was hard to focus on the day’s work when she was about, fair-skinned and bright eyed. He’d ranged as far north as Illinois and all the way here to Mexico and never seen a more beautiful creature in all his days. But he was a killer and she was a lady – and it was all but arranged she would marry the railway agent Tom Calloway. Calloway was the kind of man whose spine would have been better put to use in a snake but he was wealthy by the consideration of these parts. His father had owned a ranch and passed it along to him, a goodly spread larger than the Judge’s and well-stocked. But Calloway’s real money had come when he’d sold a good bit of his land to the railway company and convinced his neighbors to do the same. He’d since then become an agent of the business and left his younger brother to the ranch. He’d shown up in town to help negotiate the land sale of ranches here to see the tracks put through. Until now, it seemed, the Old Judge had held out and the subject had drawn some tension between the pair.

Calloway’s real gambit was the Judge’s daughter, though, or at least that was what Henry was certain on. The land was business but the desire lay with the girl. It’d be a grim marriage if there was one – but the truth was he’d known far worse. This country was not one that gave itself to the gentle hearted. Either way, he didn’t figure into it. He often set himself apart from the other men in his mind – or from all men in some aspect or another. He’d never felt like he’d found himself in any other folks. Or, as Mills had once said, he wasn’t exactly a normal man. He envied those that could slip into the banter and back and forth of folks easily. Here, in the saddle, he knew the only comfort he afforded himself and felt mostly like he was waiting for the next day’s work. The Judge’s daughter was a beauty and she’d have a dandy husband and that was it. Not a bit of him cared much for the thought but it wasn’t something he had the measure to avoid. The Old Judge had been kind to him and was as good a Boss as he could have hoped for – but even Henry wasn’t certain he was fit to be a husband. The matter seemed much beyond him. That, of course, and he and the girl had only shared glances and hardly a word at all.

The wind kicked up the bank and bent the boughs of the brush at The Bad Daughter’s feet. She wasn’t a nervous animal and paid it no mind. He felt the restlessness in her and found a certain kinship with the animal in that moment. Reins in hand, he turned them back towards the homestead. He hardly had to ask her before she broke into a lope. At his back the hardpan desert and Mexico – if the Old Judge gave up his land and turned them loose, if the girl married, he suspected he could use the money he had to round up a crew and range southward until they found the hacienda of Valenjua, a bandit of ill-repute who had turned to ranching himself. It was men under his hand that sometimes sniffed north to steal cattle and horses at their leisure. With a couple hands, in his mind, it’d be little trouble to steal back what Valenjua had taken and then run it north of Kansas. A man had said once while gambling in Eagle’s Pass that Montana was the beautiful land he’d ever seen. A cattleman’s paradise, he said. And unclaimed.

The idea had been nagging at him for some time. He’d a desire to adventure on.

He rode up to the ranch’s yard and The Bad Daughter wasn’t winded. She whickered sharply for him to carry her on past the pen they’d moved the remuda into but he steered her on towards it. Lane, another hand, lifted the wooden latch on the gate and began to swing it open. The Bad Daughter was still and steady beneath him, accepting her fate without argument.

“I still don’t get how you broke her.” He started, reaching a hand towards The Bad Daughter’s bridle.

In an instant she went savage, snapping her head around so sharply that McCoy wouldn’t have had time to rein her to heel if he’d meant to. But, truthfully, he hadn’t ever demanded to break her spirit. They’d found treaty somewhere between it all and when she lashed out and bit into Lane’s upper arm like an alligator he didn’t even scold her. A jerk of her head and she sent the cowboy flailing off into the dirt a few feet away, tossing him like so much a rag doll where he rolled to his feet with a yelp and a curse.

“That evil damned bitch is gonna kill somebody!” He swore and lifted a hand, clutching his arm. There was a faint darkening where she’d broken skin but even from a distance it was clear it was not a serious wound.

“Might be so.” Henry agreed, skirting the mare into the fence and patting her thickly-muscled neck. “Though why you saw fit to pet her – I’ll never know.”

Henry swung down from his saddle and undid the girth. One hand held the painted mare’s reins while the other dragged his rig from her back. She tolerated this warily, her eyes sharp and alert. Henry had no comfort with the horse, not truthfully, and was keen not to put himself in a place where she’d catch him with a kick or bite. For now, as he could figure it, she was pleased with herself. Her ears stood up and swiveled some as she listened. He undid her bridle and after slipping it from her head she trotted away to join the others in the darkened pasture.

“She’s a pretty thing, ‘tis all.” Lane muttered unhappily.

He was a boy of eighteen, really, and had lived the entirety of his life in Eagle’s Pass. Henry was fond of him though he was green as grass. Lane Bryant was the name he’d given but the only name anyone knew for certain was Lane. The Bryant bit was one he’d chosen a few years back. He was the son of a whore and it had been the cause of some grief in his life to be gotten so. He had dusty blonde hair and hazel eyes and was helplessly in love with the Old Judge’s daughter. It seemed as though it was a condition shared by many around the Ranch.

“Remember this for when you meet women,” Henry cautioned him quietly. “The prettier they are the harder they bite.”

He saw the confusion on the boy’s face and shook his head some, lifting his hat to wipe at his forehead with the back of his rugged forearm. “Mills back yet?”

“Waiting for you with the Old Judge in the back of the house.”

“Hang my saddle and get some sleep, Lane.” He answered to the boy.

---- ----------- ------------ ------------- ----------

“Henry, you ran long tonight.” The Old Judge was a jovial man. His eyes bright as he reclined in the rocking chair that sat along the porch running off the rear of the ranch house. He shared it alone with his daughter. The rest of the hands stayed in a bunkhouse that they’d built a dozen yards west. He and Mills shared a smaller one they’d built themselves further off the back porch and set well back. Most of the hands wouldn’t stay under the same roof as a negro. Henry would have rather stay with him anyway.

“Suppose so.” He answered as he made his way towards the pair. Pausing at the lip of the porch to bring his fingers to his lips and whistle once, sharply, into the night.

A black and white missile shot from the dark at knee-height and crossed the yard. The border collie came to him with tail wagging, eyes bright and tongue hanging past handsome teeth. She, a pup of three years, was solid muscle and lean quickness. He’d named her Baila which had rankled the Old Judge. A Scotsman, the Old Judge had paid a good amount of money to see a small pack of the dogs brought in from across the ocean. He saw them as Scottish dogs and gave them Scottish dog names. But when he’d gifted Henry a puppy Henry named her for what she was. A dancer. And so Baila it’d been, one of the few words he knew in the Mexican language of Spanish.

The only thing in the world that he treated with gentleness was the dog – though she was as keen a worker as he was.

“I remember you thought it impossible that a dog could work cattle, Captain McCoy.” The Old Judge said, watching the pair.

“Yeah.” He offered quietly. He remembered saying much the same. He’d been wrong.

“I reckon’ nobody west of the Mississippi would believe it, Judge.” Mills said steadily. “They’re mighty fine dogs.”

“This Ranch is about at its limits.” The Old Judge said steadily. “The land’s played out and contested. That’s what I wanted to talk to you boys about.”

Mills went silent and cut his eyes towards Henry. Henry didn’t meet them, instead, he looked on at the dog and passed his fingers through her soft, dense fur.

“You remember what we talked about, Hank?” He said then.

“I do.” Hank answered, lifting his head. He’d been thinking of it more steadily since they’d brought it up. “You selling to Calloway?”

“It’d be a smart thing to do.” The Judge said simply.

“If she still plans to come with you – you still plan on letting her?” Henry asked then, a bit subdued.

If the Old Judge knew what drove the question he did not let on. Instead, considering the dark beyond the yard, he nodded quietly. “She’s grown. Can’t treat her like a child. She can go where she pleases.”

“Going to be a long drive. Going to need some more hands, at least a couple worth top wages.” Mills suggested steadily before questioning discreetly. “And we should swell the herd a bit.”

“Suppose so.” Henry agreed steadily, confirming what Mills had asked him. His pale eyes cut up towards the Old Judge’s face. Time had thrown in wrinkles and he’d gotten a bit fat but he was still keen and still able.

“Tomorrow night, then. You pick a couple of the boys to go with you. I’ll not be saying a word to Calloway until we’re ready to get going. It’ll give him something like a fit if he sees us swell up big – he’ll assume we mean to stay.” The Old Judge couldn’t help but smile some at the thought. “Ben Carson and Stony Willis are in town – just done with a Dorega cattle drive. Hire them on at top wage and bring them with you before you set out.”

“I’ll write out a list of what we’ll need to acquire before we go, I suppose.” Henry said.

And then she stepped onto the porch. Prettier than the sunrise that was still hours away. And Henry, abruptly, went quiet.

(This thread is closed. )
 
Last edited:
With two baskets stacked, Emma Grayson's arms full, she carried the laundry toward the side of the property. Clotheslines had been put up years ago, strategically placed close to one of the gardens, and far from where the animals or the dirt in the wind could get to it. The ranch owner's daughter dropped the baskets on the ground at her feet, glad to get rid of the weight of the baskets that had been leaving red indentations into her arms and hands.

The blonde stared down at her small hands for a moment, remembering the compliments of softness she'd been given by those that had kissed them, in greeting.

"Such soft skin, for the daughter of a Rancher." She remembered one had said with surprise.

"You're just as soft and delicate as I remember." Another had said. In fact, those words had come directly from Tom Calloway, himself, during their last meeting. And his remark would have been followed by a snort, by Emma, or anyone that knew her, had they not been around good company at the time.

The only thing delicate about Emma Grayson, was her heart.

Bending over, wearing a white cotton dress that practically made the blonde look angelic in the glow of the afternoon sun, Emma used the clothespins to tie up the wet linens that needed to dry from the wash. Sheets, towels, blankets, pillow cases...it had taken her hours to wash everything, and it would take hours to dry as well. At least the Texas sun could assist her there, since her next chore was to prepare supper. With tired arms, she'd finished one basket, and she did a little spin to see how much room she had left for the rest.

"I almost didn't see you, you blend right in with the linens." Came the teasing voice of Lane Bryant, and she heard his voice before she saw his face. When he finally appeared, he had ducked beneath a clothesline to stand next to her. The sheets around them flapped and danced in the breeze, and the blonde stared back at him for a long moment. It almost looked as if he'd grown some facial hair on that grinning face of his. She'd only noticed because it hadn't been there yesterday. But when the sun reflected on his face when he turned his head, she soon realized it was dirt. Amused, she smiled. "You need any help?" He offered, even if it seemed the two of them already knew the answer to his question. He didn't want to help her; he wanted to spend time with her. And it just wasn't appropriate.

While Olivia Grayson wasn't completely oblivious to some of the attention and looks she received from men, especially the men on the Ranch, she guessed it was only because there were few and far females that came around. Limited options. If any other woman stepped foot on the Ranch, Emma guessed they'd receive the same attention. Though, she'd overheard Calloway tell her father how no other woman could hold a torch to her beauty, but Emma had also brushed that aside as well, figuring that was a means for him to gain more of her favor.

He'd have to do a hell of a lot more than that.

"Perhaps I could, but from the looks of you, I don't think you should be offerin'." The blonde began to laugh gently, motioning to the dirt on his hands, face, and clothes. The boy's grin got wider, and he stepped closer, as if to taunt her with it. "Oh, no you don't!" She held her small hands up, defensively. "You best be gettin' back to to work, before I tell pops--or worse, McCoy, that you don't have nothin' better to do." She gave him a better threat, causing him to stop where he stood. Got 'em.

"He just left with the Bad Daughter, I assume he won't be back for hours." Lane shrugged, but seemed to have given up on his attempts.

Long blonde hair whipped the side of her pretty face as Emma turned her head to look at the back of the property, as if for confirmation.

There were few words that Emma Grayson could use to describe Henry McCroy. Likely, because few words were ever spoken between the two. It had always been frustrating, to hear him speaking to Mills, or her father, and rarely a word to her. Sometimes, not even eye contact. She'd come up with her own conclusions as to why, and they were always changing.

Maybe it was because she was a woman. He didn't respect her. Didn't like her. Thought her to be a child. Maybe women made him nervous.

Whatever the reason, Emma never asked. She couldn't dislike the man, though. He worked hard on her family's ranch. Without his help, she couldn't even imagine what her home would be like today. He took care of it, as if it were his own. And it was, in a sense, even if just temporary. But her father respected him and liked him immediately. The Old Judge had someone to trust and confide in, and it wasn't just business, but personal, as well. Anything that affected the Ranch, affected his family. And with the passing of his wife, that just meant Emma. It had taken her a while to completely trust Henry; it was hard to trust a man who didn't look you in the eyes. But she remembered when that all changed.

"What're ya--" Emma started, but she was soon cut off by the other's shushing her, including her father. Curious, she stepped up to the fence outside the training ring. With her height at the time, the tallest fence row just barely came up to her pretty face, and she had had to step up on the shortest one just so she could hang on there and catch a peek at what was going on. Her father held a gentle hand at her back to make sure she wouldn't fall before finally, she sat on the edge. There in the ring was Henry McCoy, and it was clear now while everyone had gathered around to watch.

The others had gathered in amusement and curiosity, while Emma was more in awe, than anything.

Across from Henry was the new talk of the Ranch, not yet named, Bad Daughter. The horse was gorgeous, and nothing shy of majestic-looking. She couldn't remember ever seeing an animal more beautiful. But those blue Grayson eyes weren't just on the wild horse, but McCoy. He had his hands on his hips, but one hand held the reins he meant to get on the horse. Those pretty blues widened. The horse had barely been here a week, had he lost his mind?

As McCoy took cautious steps toward the horse, the majestic beauty cocked her head anxiously from side to side, stomping her two front feet, one at a time. Emma couldn't look away. McCoy cooed and spoke gently to the horse as he approached. When he got too close, she made a noise of protest, and hurried off to sprint around the ring. She seemed to run in a couple of circles, before finally she stopped, and McCoy started his path toward her again. The two went on like this several times, before finally it seemed he was making progress. He was only a foot from the beautiful beast's head when he reached his hand forward, meant for what she guessed to pet her mane, but the horse snapped her head and bit him.

Gasping, Emma had meant to jump off the fence to see if he was all right, unable to tell since he wore gloves. But Mills had placed a hand on her shoulder.

"Wait, just watch." He said calmly, knowing the man better than anyone else. Unsure, she did as he asked, and watched with anticipation.

McCoy removed his gloves, and from the distance, Emma could only see the blood dripping from his hand, but not how severe the wound was. She expected to see anger, even frustration on the man's face. Instead, he was as calm as he ever was, his handsome face giving little away. No one could ear his whispers, or gentle voice as he patiently, stubbornly, and what some would say stupidly, continued to step toward the horse. It was as if his voice was only for her ears. The horse's ears did twitch and flicker, alert and cautious as McCoy got closer to her. And yet, even if the beautiful animal wanted to resist him again, she stayed where she stood in the mud. Everyone was silent as his large hand carefully came up to the horse's muzzle, slowly sliding up her nose to her forehead. At that moment, Bad Daughter wasn't the only one under his spell as Emma stared on, unsure what was more beautiful, the animal or the man. She was entranced, watching his lips move as his hand gently slid up and down. Emma's once racing heart had calmed, soothed as if she were the animal being tamed, and not the horse.

When McCoy lifted the reins from his other hand, the sound caused the horse to stir again, and she shoved at McCoy's chest with her head before she sprinted off again.

The others began to laugh, tease, and taunt. Someone even suggested they let the girl go or put her down before she killed someone. But when they started placing bets on McCoy's abilities, Emma smiled over at Mills, the only one not to bet against him.


Emma Grayson's thoughts were still on that day long after she'd gotten rid of Lane, finished hanging her linens, and had started supper. Over that white cotton dress, she'd tied a blue apron around her waist. Those golden locks of hers were also tied up with a ribbon, a few curls already fallen loosely at the side of her face from her efforts of preparing all of the vegetables for the stew. Lost in those thoughts, though, she'd almost forgotten about the pie she was baking as well. Carefully pulling the apple pie out of the oven, Emma was a little disappointed to find the crust more brown than she would have liked. Though, she couldn't remember anyone ever complaining before at something she'd over-cooked, especially dessert.

With the food about finished, the only thing left to be done was set the table. But voices coming from the back had temporarily distracted her on her task as Emma wiped her small hands on her apron and curiously moved to the back door and stepped outside.

“I’ll write out a list of what we’ll need to acquire before we go, I suppose.” She heard Henry say as she appeared, causing her brows to raise.

"Go? Where are you going?" She asked, her soft voice announcing her arrival as she stared back at the three men who now fell silent. It seemed she wasn't meant to listen in. Henry McCoy's business was never hers, so she thought perhaps that was why no one answered her right away. The blonde stared at him for a long moment, waiting for him to answer her. Or even look up at her. She wondered if he'd ever look at her half the way he did Bad Daughter. Finally, her father chimed in.

"Well, you are, too, Em." He told her, and Emma didn't hide the surprise from her face as she looked back at her father. She had so many questions, but she feared she already knew the answers. If Tom Calloway had anything to do with this...well, there was little she could do about it. Calloway had wanted her hand since the moment he'd met her. For some time, she'd been able to resist and delay, without refusing him. She knew if marrying him was her fate, she would have to accept it like so many other women did. And maybe he'd make her happy. Maybe he wouldn't. Like her mother, her heart belonged on that Ranch. Emma was born for the country-side, and she swore she might love the lands and Ranch more than she'd ever love any man.

She stood there, a little uneasy, all three of the men before her knowing more about what awaited her than she did, at the moment.

"I am? Wh--" She started to ask, but a cool breeze coming through the porch made her stiffen, and shiver. "You know what? It's getting cold, as is super. Let's talk about it inside. You boys hungry? I made plenty. C'mon," She motioned for them to follow as she turned, her mind already reeling.
 
Henry felt his words abandon him, as they often did. They were fickle friends on their best day and he’d never cared to trust them. Instead, he paid some scrutiny to the yard. It was in the quiet that he felt the weight of her presence most. There was a sweetness in the girl that the world he knew could not abide. It was a troubling thought to which everything else fell away and one he suspected the Old Judge to have had himself. Goodness was not the natural order as they knew it. This world was a different one than the one she’d come to know. In that disparity, truthfully, was the weight of it all. The Old Judge would keep his daughter safe – and truth be told, Henry would to.

Love was a word composed of four letters and feelings to which he could not and would not articulate. It seemed a dream to which men, like him, could not be obliged. The long years of the war had played out a nightmare and the years followed to assert they were as real as anything he had ever known. Those dreams, the dreams of youth, were dreams he’d buried and only come to mourn later. Forgive us, Lord, we know not what we do. Or something, he reckoned, of the kind. All the same he was not the kind of man that could bring innocence or happiness to the girl. So, as his eyes cut back to ever-so-briefly appraise Emma’s beauty for the perfection of it, he banished the thoughts and let the dull ache of his desire linger in his belly where it belonged.

“Mills and I can take ours out on the porch.” He said. The pair had never dined with the Old Judge and Emma, and some folks didn’t care much for having a negro at their table. The offer was a way to avoid the subject from coming of their accord. Mills, for his part, nodded amicably.

“You’re both to sit at the table. I’m ashamed I’ve not made the offer before and didn’t make it myself.” Answered the Old Judge.

In the dark he saw the clouds sliding their way across the face of the moon, backlit by the soft alabaster shape of it and the countless stars that flanked it in the night sky. The Old Judge did not, and had never, disappointed him with the measure of his character. Henry looked aside and saw Mills eyes turn to the ground, smiling simply, at the consideration. The old negro was not an unhandsome man and the greying hair served him well as he removed the faded blue cavalry cap and dipped his chin.

“Judge, sir, I am much obliged.” And then he turned his big chocolate eyes up to Emma. “And to you, Miss Emma.”

As he listened Henry was reminded once more that between them it was Mills that was the more charming of the pair. Shaking his head some, with a smile tugging at his lips for the moment’s kind turn, Henry lifted his hand and tipped his hat to the pair. A moment later he found himself turning from the yard and stepping in.

Mills followed, then the Old Judge, and for a moment in that order he was left to admire the soft and slender shape of Emma as she carried on ahead. The table was set for two but she sought to fix it. And, though he made no measure of word to offer, he went with her, even as the Old Judge began to speak to Mills. The warmth of the exchange, the sudden certainty of their purpose, filled him once again with the feeling that he’d long gone without. It carried him to take the dishes from Emma as she fetched them, following her into her father’s kitchen.

“Let me.” He said. The ungentle measure of him briefly quieted as his eyes took in her own.
 
Back
Top