near Chicago,” he confessed. “So I must humor him, to some extent. I assure you, my daughter will not mourn his absence. She only went to drive with him at my request. She finds him repulsive.”
So did John, but he didn’t want to rock the boat.
“I’m glad you came, young man.” Colby offered his hand, and John shook it.
“So am I, sir,” he replied. “If you don’t mind, I would like to take my leave of your daughter.”
“Be my guest.”
“Thank you.”
John walked toward the open door that contained a maid, Miss Ellen Colby and a very mad wet dog of uncertain age and pedigree. It was a shaggy dog, black and white, with very long ears. It was barking pitifully and shaking soapy water everywhere.
“Oh, Miss Colby, this doggy don’t want no bath,” the maid wailed as she tried to right her cap.
“Never you mind, Lizzie, we’re going to bathe her or die in the attempt.” Ellen blew back a strand of loose hair, holding the dog down with both hands while the maid laved water on it with a cup.
“A watering trough might be a better proposition, Miss Colby,” John drawled from the doorway.
His voice shocked her. She jerked her head in his direction and loosened the hold she had on the dog. In the few seconds that followed, the animal gave a yelp of pure joy, leaped out of the pan, off the table, and scattered the rugs as it clawed its way to the freedom of the parlor.
“Oh, my goodness!” Ellen yelled. “Catch her, Lizzie, before she gets to the bedroom! She’ll go right up on Papa’s bed, like she usually does!”
“Yes, ma’am!”
The maid ran for all she was worth. Ellen Colby put her soapy hands on her hips and glared daggers at the tall green-eyed man in the doorway.
“Now see what you’ve done!” Ellen raged at John.
“Me?” John’s eyebrows arched. “I assure you, I meant only to say goodbye.”
“You diverted my attention at a critical moment!”
He smiled slowly, liking the way her blue eyes flashed in anger. He liked the thickness of her hair. It looked very long. He wondered if she let it down at bedtime.
That thought disturbed him. He straightened. “If your entire social life consists of bathing the dog, miss, you are missing out.”
“I have a social life!”
“Falling into mud puddles?”
She grabbed up the soaking brush they’d used on the dog and considered heaving it.
John threw back his head and laughed uproariously.
“Do be quiet!” she muttered.
“You have hidden fires,” he commented with delight. “Your father has asked me to keep an eye on you, Miss Colby, while he’s off on his hunting trip. I find the prospect delightful.”
“I can think of nothing I would enjoy less!”
“I’m quite a good companion,” he assured her. “I know where birds’ nests are and where flowers grow, and I can even sing and play the guitar if asked.”
She hesitated, wet splotches all over her lacy dress and soap in her upswept hair. She looked at him with open curiosity. “You are wearing a gun,” she pointed out. “Do you shoot people with it?”
“Only the worst sort of people,” he told her. “And I have yet to shoot a woman.”
“I am reassured.”
“I have a cattle ranch not too far a ride from here,” he continued. “In the past, I have had infrequently to help defend my cattle from Comanche raiding parties.”
“Indians!”
He laughed at her expression. “Yes. Indians. They have long since gone to live in the Indian Territory. But there are still rustlers and raiders from across the Mexican border, as well as deserting soldiers and layabouts from town hoping to steal my cattle and make a quick profit by selling them to the army.”
“How do you stop them?”
“With vigilance,” he said simply. “I have men who work for me on shares.”
“Shares?” She frowned. “Not for wages?”
He could have bitten his tongue. He hadn’t meant to let that slip out.
She knew that he’d let his guard down. She found him mysterious and charming and shrewd. But he had attractions. He was the first man she’d met who made her want to know more about him.
“I might take you for a ride in my buggy,” he mused.
“I might go,” she replied.
He chuckled, liking her pert response. She wasn’t much to look at, truly, but she had qualities he’d yet to find in other women.
He turned to go. “I won’t take the dog along,” he said.
“Papa’s dog goes with me everywhere,” she lied, wanting to be contrary.
He glanced at her over his shoulder. “You were alone in the mud puddle, as I recall.”
She glared at him.
He gave her a long, curious scrutiny. He smiled slowly. “We can discuss it at a later date. I will see you again in a day or two.” He lifted his hat respectfully. “Good day, Miss Colby.”
“Good day, Mr….?” It only then occurred to her that she didn’t even know his name.
“John,” he replied. “John Jackson Jacobs. But most people just call me ‘Big John.’”
“You are rather large,” she had to agree.
He grinned. “And you are rather small. But I like your spirit, Miss Colby. I like it a lot.”
She sighed and her eyes began to glow faintly as they met his green ones.
He winked at her and she blushed scarlet. But before he could say anything, the maid passed him with the struggling wet dog.
“Excuse me, sir, this parcel is quite maddeningly wet,” the maid grumbled as she headed toward the bowl on the table.
“So I see. Good day, ladies.” He tipped his hat again, and he was gone in a jingle of spurs.
Ellen Colby looked after him with curiosity and an odd feeling of loss. Strange that a man she’d only just met could be so familiar to her, and that she could feel such joy in his presence.
Her life had been a lonely one, a life of service, helping to act as a hostess for her father and care for her grandmother. But with her grandmother off traveling, Ellen was now more of a hindrance than a help to her family, and it was no secret that her father wanted badly to see her married and off his hands.
But chance would be a fine thing, she thought. She turned back to the dog with faint sadness, wishing she were prettier.
JOHN RODE BACK to his ranch, past the newfangled barbed wire which contained his prize longhorn bull, past the second fence that held his Hereford bull and his small herd of Hereford cows with their spring calves, to the cabin where he and his foremen’s families lived together. He had hundreds of head of beef steers, but they ranged widely, free of fences, identified only by his 3J brand, burned into their thick coats. The calves had been branded in the spring.
Mary Brown was at the door, watching him approach. It was early June, and hot in south Texas. Her sweaty black hair was contained under a kerchief, and her brown eyes smiled at him. “Me and Juana washed your old clothes,