and I can come, too. Can’t we go? It’s been ever so long since we’ve been to a party.” He glowered at them. “And you won’t let me go to see Mr. Cody’s show Thursday afternoon. They said it will be his very last show—and he’s got Pawnee Bill’s Far East Show on the same bill, with real elephants!”
“I’m sorry, Teddy,” his father said, “but we really can’t spare the time, I’m afraid. We’re shipping cattle to California this week, and we’re still behind some of the other cattle companies getting ours en route.”
“Buffalo Bill’s last show and I’ll miss it,” Teddy groaned.
“Perhaps he isn’t really retiring. Besides,” Mary Lang said gently, “there’s sure to be one of those new Boy Scout troops starting up soon in Douglas, what with all the publicity the movement is getting. You could join that, perhaps.”
“I suppose. Can we go to the party? It’s at night. You can’t work at night,” he added.
“I agree,” Mrs. Lang said. “Besides, dear, it really wouldn’t do to offend Mr. Vance when we’re neighbors.”
“And I suppose,” her husband said mischievously as he looked at his daughter, “there won’t be anyone for Thorn to dance with if Trilby doesn’t go.”
Which called to Trilby’s mind an image of the reprehensible Mr. Vance dancing by himself. She had to smother a grin.
“Trilby calls him Mr. Vance,” Teddy pointed out.
“Trilby is being respectful, as she should be,” Mr. Lang replied. “But Thorn and I are cattlemen. We use first names.”
Thorn suits him, Trilby thought to herself. He was just as sharp as one, and could draw blood as easily.
She didn’t say it. Her father wouldn’t approve of blatant rudeness.
“We’re going, then?” Trilby asked.
“Yes,” Mrs. Lang replied, smiling at her daughter. She was a pretty woman. She was almost forty, but she looked ten years younger. “You still have a nice dress that you haven’t worn since we’ve been out here,” she reminded Trilby.
“I wish I still had my lovely silk ensemble,” Trilby replied, smiling back. “It was lost on the way here.”
“Why is it called such a silly thing?” Teddy muttered.
“Well, I never!” Trilby laughed. “And don’t you think naming a stuffed bear for Teddy Roosevelt is silly?” Trilby asked absently.
“Of course not! Hoorah for Teddy!” Teddy chuckled. “His birthday is Thursday, the same day of Buffalo Bill’s show; I read it in the paper. He’ll be fifty-two. I was named for him, wasn’t I, Dad?”
“Indeed you were. He’s a hero of mine. He was a sickly, weak child, but he built himself up and became a rugged soldier, a cowboy, a politician…I suppose Colonel Teddy Roosevelt has been everything, including president.”
“I’m sorry he wasn’t reelected,” Mrs. Lang replied. “I would have voted for him,” she added, with a meaningful look at her husband. “If women could vote.”
“A wrong that will one day soon be righted, you mark my words,” Mr. Lang said affectionately, and put his arm around his wife’s thin shoulders. “President Taft signed the Arizona statehood bill in June, praise God, and many changes will now occur as they work to get the constitution ready for ratification. But whatever happens, you’re still my best girl.”
She laughed and nuzzled her cheek against his shoulder. “And you’re my best boy.”
Trilby smiled and left with Teddy, leaving her parents to themselves. Years and years of marriage, and they were still like newlyweds. She hoped that someday she would be as fortunate in her marriage.
Chapter Two
Thorn was halfway back to the ranch when a cloud of dust caught up to him. He turned his head in time to see Naki, one of the two Apache men who worked for him, rein in to match his speed. The other man was tall and had long, shoulder-length black hair. He wore a breechclout and high-topped buckskin moccasins with a red-checked shirt and a thick, red-patterned cotton band tied around his forehead to keep his hair out of his eyes.
“Been hunting?” Thorn asked him.
The other man nodded.
“Find anything?”
The Apache didn’t even glance at him. He held up one hand, displaying a thick, bound book. “I’ve been looking for it everywhere.”
“I mean, did you shoot anything that we could eat for supper?” he said, glowering.
Naki’s eyebrows lifted. “Me? Shoot something?” He sounded horrified. “Kill a helpless animal?”
“You’re an Apache Indian,” Thorn reminded him, with exaggerated patience. “A hunter. Master of the bow and arrow.”
“Not me. I prefer a Remington repeater rifle,” he said in perfect English.
“I thought you were going to get us something in buckskin.”
“I did.” He held up the book again. “Leatherstocking Tales, by James Fenimore Cooper.”
“Oh, my God!” Thorn groaned. “What kind of Apache are you?”
“An educated one, of course,” Naki replied pleasantly. “You’re going to have to do something about Jorge’s cousin,” he added, the lightness gone from his tone and the smile from his deep-set black eyes as he stopped and faced the other man. “You lost five head of cattle this morning, and not to drought and lack of water. Ricardo confiscated them.”
“Damn the luck!” Thorn cursed. “Again?”
“Again. He’s feeding some revolutionary comrades hidden out in the hills. I can’t fault his loyalty to his family, but he’s carrying it to extremes and on stolen beef.”
“I’ll have it out with him.” He glared at the horizon. “This damned war is coming too close.”
“I won’t argue.” Naki tucked the book in his saddlebags. He produced two rabbits on a tether and tossed them to Thorn. “Supper,” he announced.
“Are you coming down to share it?”
“Share it?” Naki looked horrified. “Eat a rabbit? I’d rather starve!”
“What did you have in mind, or dare I ask?”
Naki’s white teeth gleamed in a face like sculpted bronze. “Fried rattler,” he said, his eyes glittering.
“Snob,” Thorn accused.
Naki shrugged. “One can hardly expect a man of European ancestry to measure up to a culture as ancient and sophisticated as mine,” he said, eyes sparkling with humor. “Meanwhile, I’ll track Jorge’s cousin down for you and bring him along.”
“Don’t,
