The Boss's Daughter

Chapter 1

Chapter 1

The sky above the arroyo has turned a deep red by the time I realize how late it is. I’ve spent most of the latter part of the afternoon fixing a broken fence out in the lower pasture, taking my turn pounding the post into the ground while Paco rides around the cattle to keep them back. When I remove my hat and wipe my forehead with one grimy sleeve, Chavez gives me his broken-toothed grin. “You look like mierda, pibe,” he says in that sing-song accent of his.

I’ve learned enough Spanish since coming west to know when I’m being put down. “Your madre,” I say, which makes him snigger. The vaqueros have told me my accent’s atrocious. When I reply, “que te jodan,” that only makes them laugh harder.

After we put the planks back into the new fence post, Paco rides over and Chavez tells him something in Spanish I don’t catch. I hear the word pibe, so I know they’re talking about me. Pibe, it means boy, and is meant to be derogatory. I’m almost thirty without a hair on my face, and when they’re joking around with me, they say my skin looks like a baby’s bottom. But I’m a hard worker, putting in more than my fair share of the work around the ranch, and they believe me when I tell them I have Cherokee blood in me. That’s why my cheeks and jaw are still smooth this late in the day, when Chavez’s jowls are already dark with stubble, and even Paco has a little bit of fuzz above his upper lip. Once he asked how often I shave. I told him once a month whether I needed it or not. That earned me more laughter, but at least it shut him up.

Now I vault easily into the saddle of my mare, tugging on the reins to get her attention. Chavez gives the fence one final kick—he’s our foreman, and if the thing breaks again, he’ll be the one Boss Daddy blames. But the post holds, and Paco hands over the reins of his horse while he climbs up. Then the three of us turn our backs to the setting sun and head for the ranch house. Halfway there, the peal of the supper bell rings out across the land.

Paco and Chavez spur their steeds on further, but I’m in no rush. I don’t eat with the other ranch hands. I don’t bunk down with them, either. I have a room in town that has its own bed and a door that locks, and I can get fresh warm water for a bath once a week as part of my rent. I take my meals at the saloon, where I’ve become a regular fixture every evening for the past year. It was the first place I stopped at when I stepped off the train at Junction, and the food’s not half bad.

Trouble is, it’s not half good, either. But it’s cheap, and edible. Can’t ask for much more this far west.

By the time I reach the stables, Paco and Chavez are nowhere to be seen. Their horses are still saddled—in their haste to eat, they left the poor steeds to fend for themselves. So after I unsaddle my mare and brush her down, I give her a bucket of feed and take care of the other two. Stubs’ slop will be waiting for me no matter how late I get there, and no one else is expecting me tonight. More importantly, Boss Daddy will know those two vaqueros were too lazy to put away their horses, and he’ll know I did it for them. Which will keep me in his good graces. Given who he is in this part of the county, that’s exactly where I want to stay.

Since he owns almost all the land around these here parts—the ranch, the town and everything in it, even the railroad spur at Junction—in his good graces is a damn good place to be.

Once I’m finished with the horses, I head around to the pump beside the bunkhouse. I push my sleeves up to my elbows and prime the pump, then wash off my hands and forearms in the cold water. It feels wonderful on my hot, dusty skin, so I take off my hat and dip my head beneath the rushing spray. Cool tendrils trickle down the back of my neck and furrow under the collar of my shirt. I feel the icy chill harden my n*****s beneath the rough cloth. As the pump runs dry, I shake the excess water out of my hair, then pull up my shirt a bit to rub my face with the relatively clean undershirt beneath.

It’s when I have my shirt up, my stomach exposed, that I realize I’m not alone.

Quickly I smooth down my clothing and turn to find Boss Daddy’s only daughter standing on the bunkhouse porch above me. She looks as fresh and pretty as a plucked daisy, her gingham dress clean and starched, her crinoline petticoats a rush of lacy foam above her buckled heels. Her long hair is pinned up in a bun at the nape of her neck, the color the same pale chestnut of the sandy ground in shadow. She has piercing eyes that seem to reflect the blue sky above.

The faintest smile toys at the corners of her heart-shaped lips when I catch her watching me. “Evening, Mr. Nat.”

I touch the top of my head, searching for my hat, but it’s hanging on the handle of the pump. I quickly pull it on, tugging it down over my ears, then almost immediately whip it off again and lower my head. “Evening, Miss Lucille,” I mumble. I don’t dare look at her direct.

When I don’t say anything further, she sighs. It’s a delicate sound, and it stirs my insides in ways I won’t let myself think about. “I ‘spect you’re just about ready to head on into town,” she says.

I nod. “Yes ‘m.”

She leans down over the porch railing and smiles at me. I stare hard at the ruffle on her skirts but I can feel that smile above me, as warm as the dying sun. “Mr. Nat,” she murmurs, “you can look up at me, you know. It’s just the two of us out here at the moment.”

“Boss Daddy’ll have my hide if I’m too friendly with you,” I mutter.

“Boss Daddy doesn’t have to know.”

Her voice is even lower than before, and I hear the rustle of her petticoats as she drops down to crouch in front of me. Before I know it, I’m no longer looking at her skirts but at her face between the slats in the porch railing. Her pretty features are framed by wisps of blowsy hair that managed to escape her bun. Her nose and cheeks and forehead are slightly darker than the rest of her skin, as if kissed by the sun. She’s the most beautiful lady in Junction—hell, in all the west, I’d reckon. How something so delicate and soft is descended from a hard, brass man like Boss Daddy is beyond me.

I clutch my hat in both hands and press it hard against my stomach. “I…uh, I really should go, Miss Lucille.”

She half-closes her eyes seductively. “Don’t you want to stay a while with me, Mr. Nat?”

Truth is, yes, I do. But her daddy isn’t the only thing I’m afraid of. “I must go,” I say, more sure of myself this time. For good measure, I plop my hat onto my head and turn away.

I don’t get far before I remember my manners. Turning back to her, I remove my hat again and bow. This time I don’t let myself get drawn into the prison of her gaze. “Good night, Miss Lucille.”

She’s still squatting in a very unladylike manner, and when she sighs, she leans her forehead against the railing. “Good night, Mr. Nat. Pleasant dreams.”

Her words chase me all the way into town.