Infatuated

Recently I’ve had a number of people email me and request a story centering on Shey Cutter.  Well, this is it . . . sort of.  Rest assured there is lots and lots of Joe (my favorite Cartwright!) plus the thing that works best in these stories--Joe and Shey together.  If anything, Shey just gets center stage in a few more scenes than normal and I delve a little deeper into what makes him tick.  As always, thanks to Karen F. for being my second pair of eyes.  No wonder what I’m working on (fanfic or straight fiction) you make an invaluable critique partner!  

If you’re new to my Bonanza fanfic, the stories are best read in sequence as events and characters continue from story to story.  The correct reading order is:

Restitution; A Penny for Your Problems; Defending Miss David; Betrayal; Chaos; Ringgold; Encounter at Oxbow; Kinship; Threshold; Miss David Returns; Southwest of Nevada; Witch Wind; Infatuated 

Not my characters (with the exception of the obvious “guest stars” and of course Shey).  No profit is being made from this story and no infringement is intended on Bonanza Ventures, David Dortort, NBC Television, or any other holder of Bonanza copyrights.  Comments are welcome at CMOrtenz@aol.com. 

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

  Infatuated

By Kate (CMT)

With a sidelong glance for his friend, Shey Cutter adjusted the cinch on his saddle.   Bright sunlight puddled in the barn where he readied his gray gelding.  It was still early enough in the afternoon for him to squeeze in a final check of the lowlands around Sable Creek before calling it a day.  A surprisingly cold and wet October had left conditions ripe for mud bogs and flooding, trapping more than a few stray head of cattle in quagmires.  Relief arrived in the form of unseasonably warm weather only yesterday, but it would take days for those areas prone to flooding to dry completely.

Scraping his bangs from his eyes, Shey settled his black hat more comfortably on his head.  He’d only been half listening to Joe Cartwright rattle on about the big outdoor shindig his father was holding to introduce the editor of the town newspaper.  He generally enjoyed any excuse for a party, but . . . “I’m all for having a good time, Cartwright, but this ain’t gonna be some highbrow uppity affair is it?  I hear tell they’re importin’ stuffed shirts and tea-social-old-maids as far away as Kansas City for that rededication thing.  Don’t rightly see what all the fuss is about.  It’s jest a newspaper.”

Joe laughed.  “Shey, the Virginia City Herald isn’t just any newspaper.  Least ways, it won’t be once Malcolm Dean Rocherty takes over as editor.  He ran some of the largest papers in the east.  Adam says anything he touches turns to gold. Guess that’s why the International House is filling up with all those out-of-town businessmen and politicians.  They all want to meet him.”

“You mean they all wanna get their name in print, maybe a picture of them shakin’ hands with the big man himself.  What kind of moneybags lunkhead has a name like Malcolm Dean Rocherty anyway?   Sounds like he should be runnin’ for governor or bottom-dealin’ cards at the stud table on a riverboat. I bet he’s as trustworthy as an eel-stripe horse tryin’ to pass itself off as a zebra dun.” 

“You’re just naturally cynical Cutter, you know that?”

“Damn right.  Keeps me alive.”  With a shake of his head, Shey led his horse from the barn.  Joe trailed at his side, walking comfortably.  That at least made him feel better.  Just a week ago, Joe had been laid up with a damaged leg, the result of an accident when Cochise reared unexpectedly.  The situation, bad as it was, might have been a lot worse if Shey hadn’t found him and gotten him back to the Ponderosa. 

Or if Roper Crane had killed him, Shey thought sourly.  His stomach knotted.  It still grated on his nerves to think he’d been duped by Crane.  Worse, that his stubbornness and refusal to see facts had almost cost his best friend his life.  He hadn’t really understood what Joe’s friendship had meant to him until that moment, when he’d teetered on the brink of having it snatched away. Scowling, he tried to concentrate on anything but the memory of Joe shivering and in pain, sitting mute while Shey had crudely stitched his leg.  “How’s Adam know Mister-Big-City-College-Boy anyway?”

Joe chuckled.  “Dean really is common folk, Shey.  I’ve met him.  And Adam went to school with him.”

“Big surprise there.”

“Hey, you’re not going to pass up a chance at a party, are you?”

“Hell, no.”  Shey collected his reins and swung into the saddle.  For a moment he sat staring down on Joe, noting the bright glint of his smile, the luminous light in his black-lashed green eyes.  There was no question Joe was fully recovered, yet the memory of that long ride back to the Ponderosa after Roper had tried to kill him, still haunted Shey.  Maybe he was just getting old, tangled up in responsibility and relationships.  Growing up he’d never had time for friends, at least none who mattered.  And certainly none who would have risked their own lives for his, as Joe had done time and time again. Sometimes he wondered what kept a person like Joe Cartwright--a naturally likable, all-around decent human being--friends with a pigheaded upstart like him.  He blew out a sigh.  “Who else is gonna be there, Joseph?”

“Who do you think—practically the whole town.”  Joe’s eyes danced, a sure sign he was enjoying Shey’s restlessness.  “Dean and his wife Rose, are the guests of honor, along with Rose’s sister, Elizabeth.  She came along to help Rose get settled while Dean organizes things at the paper.  They bought that big white house at the end of town.  You remember—the one Henry  Boone lived in before his father took that banking job in St. Louis.”

“Bug-Eyed Boone?”  Shey’s brow drew in a crease.  “You mean that timid little runt you and Kyle Gordon used to pal around with?”

“He wore glasses, Shey.”

“It had nothing to do with his glasses.  The kid was just plain weird, Cartwright.  My Pa caught him creepin’ ‘round the back of the saloon once, tryin’ to get a peek at the gals, if’n you know what I mean.”

“Like you never did?”

Shey grinned.  “I never got caught.” 

Joe waved the comment aside.  “Just answer the question, Romeo.  You gonna be there tonight?”

“Yeah, Cartwright, I’ll be there.  You’ve only been yammerin’ on about it for the last week.  Jest don’t go gettin’ riled if’n I avoid the haughty folk.  Dean and his kin I can handle, but hanger-ons and social-climbing wives give me the willies.  ”

“Okay, Boss.  I’ll keep you clear of the starched shirts.”  Joe grinned broadly.  “See you tonight.”   He slapped his hand against the gelding’s rear as it bolted away.  A party wouldn’t be a party without Shey Cutter, and despite his friend’s grousing about not wanting to rub elbows with Virginia City’s elite, he was part of that group whether he wanted to acknowledge it or not.  As the second largest landholder in all of Nevada there would be a number of “social climbers” eager to go out of their way to meet him tonight.  It would be interesting to see how he handled that, the one time town troublemaker courted by the champagne and lobster set.

Joe walked up the path from the barn to Shey’s house where’d he’d tethered Cochise earlier.  The massive two-story colonial home Lincoln Cutter had built loomed majestically over spreading fields and pastures, no longer appearing out of place now that Joe had grown accustomed to the strange sight. Lincoln had lived most of his life in the east, carrying his love of Philadelphia architecture to the raw west when he’d settled just outside Virginia City.  Joe remembered him as a kindly dignified man with an up-front manner.  His son had inherited his to-the-point attitude minus the polish he’d possessed to soften prickly edges.  When Lincoln’s wife left him early on, Chance and Shey had grown up as wild as the land around them.  Despite Shey’s cocky restlessness, Joe was certain Lincoln would have been proud of the man Shey became.  He sometimes still marveled how drastically his own feelings had changed toward his one-time rival.  It was a shame they’d wasted so much of their youth at each other’s throats. 

As he swung up on Cochise, Joe wondered what Callie Garrett would have thought if she’d met Shey a few short years ago.  His friend’s on-again/off-again girlfriend had finally grown tired of waiting for Shey to propose.  She’d laid down an ultimatum and when Shey had balked, refusing to be cornered, she’d started seeing other men.  Afterward Shey had been moody and irritable, but like anything that crossed his path, he’d swept the whole affair under the rug after a few days and started cozying up to some of the girls in Sam’s saloon.

Secretly Joe had been rooting for Callie.  He’d always held a soft spot for her, and he couldn’t help looking forward to the day his brash friend fell victim to the pangs of true love.  Shey took perverse delight in ribbing Joe about his deep-rooted feelings for Lorna David, the woman who still controlled his heart.  It was only fair play he be given the same opportunity to torment Shey.

Joe’s lips lifted in a smile.  There would be plenty of pretty girls at the party tonight and Shey was one of the city’s most eligible bachelors.  Maybe, just maybe he’d get the chance to do a little meddling of his own.

+++++

Shey let his gray pick its way down a trail to the lowlands surrounding Sable Creek.  The weather was warm and pleasant, but a few short days ago the area had been subjected to torrential rains. Shey had lost a few head of cattle and feared they’d become bogged in mud holes around the creek.  He had just enough time to do a thorough inspection of the area before heading back to prepare for the big Cartwright shindig honoring Dean Rocherty. 

“Easy Reno,” Shey mumbled to the gray when it grew fidgety on the uneven ground.  Pockets of mud left the terrain bogged down and rutted where water and heavy soil had combined to form quagmires.  The ground was spongy and soft, saturated with rain. Shey was almost to Sable Creek when he spotted a buggy stuck dead center in a thick quagmire of mud.  A woman stood on the floorboards, red-gold hair tumbled around her as she talked to the horse, trying to urge it forward.

With a smirk for her predicament, Shey ambled his gray down the path.  “Trouble, Miss?”  His voice came out a little too snide.  Noting the immaculate cut of her clothing, he couldn’t help feeling smug about her dilemma.  She was obviously one of the social-climbers who’d arrived in town, hoping to cling to the coattails of Malcolm Dean Rocherty.  Drawing Reno to a halt, Shey cocked his hat back on his head.  “Looks like you’ve got yerself in a right spot.”

The woman shot him an annoyed glance.  Blue-green eyes flashed beneath a luxurious fringe of hair the color of toasted honey.   “I didn’t think the bog would be so deep.  Any horse in the east would have crossed it without blinking an eye.  I don’t know why this mare is being so stubborn.”

“In the east, huh?”  Shey raised a brow.  Leave it to a highbrow uppity skirt to look down her nose at western stock.  “Ain’t nuthin’ wrong with that horse.  It’s jest the driver who’s a bit green.”

A flush of color rushed to the woman’s cheeks.  “I’m perfectly capable of handling any horse created, Mister . . . .”

“Cutter.”  He doffed his hat.  “It’s my land you’re crossin’ . . . or tryin’ to,” he amended with a grin.  “We got hit pretty hard with heavy rains the last few days.  Any fool knows these lowlands bog down with mud after two days of wet weather.  If’n I were you, I’d back that mare out the way you came.”

“Well you’re not me,” the woman snapped.  She seemed perturbed he’d had the gall to challenge her.  Tugging down her short jacket, she straightened her immaculate clothing. 

Shey had to admit she was a looker with all that cinnamon-colored hair and trim waist.   He thought about climbing down and helping her, but that would involve getting his boots muddy, and hell, she obviously thought she could handle the fool horse by herself anyway.  Who was he to second guess some silk-stocking, bee-in-her-bonnet blueblood? 

He drew his leg up, languidly hooking it over the saddle horn as he watched her snap the reins.  “You keep eggin’ that mare on, you best sit down ‘fore you take a tumble.  Sooner or later she’s gonna bolt.”

“I don’t think so.”  The woman gave another firm snap of the reins.  “Giddup.”

“I might be inclined to help if you jest ask.” Shey’s lips curled in an enticing grin.  “Nice-like that is.”

Her glance was withering. “I don’t need your help, Mr. Cutter.”

“That so?  Well, I can’t leave you stuck here till sundown, and at the rate you’re goin’ I’ll be old and gray ‘fore you get that buggy outta there.”  Shey swung down from the saddle and took two steps forward.  “Hope you appreciate the fact I’m muddying my boots.  I can’t rightly abide prim eastern women who oughta know better than to venture outta their perfumed tea parlors.”

“Perfumed tea--”  The woman choked off the words in bristling indignation. Smoldering venom and dragon-fire flashed through her blue-green eyes.  “You arrogant, insufferable toad! How dare you insinuate--”

Shey jabbed a finger at the horse.  “You best stop caterwaulin’ and pay attention to that mare.  All your hissin’ and spittin’ is makin’ her fidgety.”  Even as he spoke, the mare tried to extradite her forelegs from the mud, but the woman was too incensed to pay attention. 

“I know perfectly well what I’m doing,” she spat, whirling to face him.  Enraged, she stepped to the edge of the running board, her features pinched and flushed.  “I don’t need the interference of some long-haired rube cowboy--”  The mare gave a sudden lurch and the woman reeled sideways from the carriage.  

Shey reacted instinctively, darting forward.  As the mare bolted from the mud, wrenching the buggy behind it, Shey blundered into the quagmire and caught the woman in his arms.  He felt the impact of her weight settle nicely against him, all soft curves and shapely angles.  Her arm was around his neck, her mouth parted in a shocked “O” of surprise.  In the passing of a heartbeat the expression in her eyes went from enraged to embarrassed, then back to enraged.  A wash of bright color seeped into her cheeks.  “Put me down, Mr. Cutter.”

Shey wasn’t so sure he wanted to comply.  Uppity and all, there was something a tad enchanting about her.  He wasn’t above holding her longer, tantalized by the close press of her flesh to his.  He could feel the rounded swell of one breast lodged against his chest, a sensation that had him thinking with the wrong part of his anatomy.  Proper women generally didn’t want anything to do with him.  It was a novel experience to have such a prim thing pressed up against him.  He grinned.  “Guess you should have listened to me about that mare.”

She was growing agitated.  “Put me down.” 

“You sure about that?” Shey’s grin grew pointed and brash.  “You got your arm wrapped around my neck awful tight.  Seems to me like you’re the one hanging on.”

“How dare you!”  Naked anger flashed through her eyes.  She started to squirm, using her hand to push away from him.  “I will not be manhandled like some, some  . . . farm animal . . . by a backwoods, countrified  . . . hillbilly!”

“Hillbilly?”  Shey’s mouth thinned on the word, his own anger spiking.  He was usually the one to slyly prod, remaining cool while others grew reckless, but even he had a breaking point.   Something about people--especially women--who thought they were better than others just naturally rubbed him the wrong way.  “You want down?  Let me oblige you--”  Shey opened his arms, unceremoniously dumping the woman rear-end first into the mud.  She landed with a loud plop, a small geyser spraying up to splatter Shey’s pants.  He didn’t mind at all. It was well worth a little dirt to see the look on her face, a combination of raw shock and seething indignation. 

Mud sucked at her heavy skirt, saturating the expensive material in jagged brown stains, waist-deep in the rear.  It left large dollops clinging to her face, chest and hair.  Her arms, braced behind her and supporting her back, were sunk to the elbows. 

Looking at her, Shey felt his anger drain.  He laughed out loud, unable to recall when he’d seen a more deserving sight.  “Sure hope you got a good laundress.”

“You pig!”  She lobbed a handful of mud at him, but he danced cat-quick out of the way. 

“Hey, quit that.  That ain’t no way for a lady to talk.  Or act.”  He stretched out his hand.  “I ain’t above helpin’ you up.”

“Stay away from me.”  Defiantly, she clambered to her feet, trying to shake aside the larger clumps of mud clinging to her skin and clothing.  Her hair hung in her eyes, the curling ends wilted and dripping with mud.  A few steps away, the mare waited docilely, unaware it had been the catalyst of the whole humiliating predicament.

Shey watched as the woman tried to climb into the buggy, her saturated skirt weighting her steps, making movement difficult.  He knew she would likely scratch his eyes out given the chance, but he found the whole thing comical.  “Don’t be such a prima donna.  Sheath your claws and let me help you.”

“If you so much as breathe in my direction, Mr. Cutter, I won’t be responsible for my actions.”  She settled into the seat, obviously trying to regain an air of dignity, and collected the reins.  Shey had to admire the way she sat with her back ramrod straight, all highbrow and uppity, despite the mud dripping from her clothing.  He kind of regretted he hadn’t kissed her when he had her in his arms, just because he’d never kissed an eastern-bred woman before.  Deciding she couldn’t hate him any worse than she already did, he took two quick steps to the side of the buggy, slid his hand behind her head, and slanted his mouth over hers.

He had one quick impression of warmth and sweet-honey, of crackling passion and wine-red heat before she wrenched away.  Her open palm connected with his cheek, snapping his head to the side.  With a grin, Shey stepped back from the buggy.  “You kiss better than you hiss-and-spit, Miss . . . ?”

Fire flamed in her eyes.  “I wouldn’t lower myself to give you my name, Mr. Cutter.   If there’s any justice in the world, we’ll never see each other again.”

Shey smiled faintly, watching as she collected the reins and sent the buggy determinedly on its way.  Eastern-bred and blueblooded.  She had to be one of the social-climbing, status-seekers who’d come to see three-name-whatshizhuzzat splash his photo all over the Virginia City Herald.  That meant she’d probably be at the Ponderosa tonight for Ben Cartwright’s big shindig.

Shey whistled softly for his gelding as he walked back toward the gray. 

It might just be worth rubbing elbows with all those hobb-knobbers after all.

+++++

Joe adjusted his string tie then stepped back to survey his handiwork in the mirror.  Crisp white shirt, black tie, and gray pants.  It felt good to get out of work clothes, to unwind, and know there was nothing to do except enjoy himself tonight.  Autumn parties weren’t as frequent as those held during spring and summer, and they were rarely held outdoors.  He knew Hoss and Hop-Sing had spent much of the day stringing lanterns outside, so that even when the sun set and darkness crept in, guests could continue to enjoy themselves as long as the weather remained pleasant.  The warm temperatures over the last two days had felt like a touch of spring, keenly welcomed after such a dismal October.

His leg wasn’t quite healed after the incident with Roper Crane, but he felt relatively certain it wouldn’t hinder dancing, not when there promised to be so many pretty girls present.  As he clambered noisily down the steps Joe wondered if Callie Garrett would come, and whether Shey would be magnanimous enough to dance with his one-time girlfriend.  Worse, would Callie arrive on the arm of Cliff Thompson, the man who’d been sparking her since Shey had bowed out of the picture?

“Hey, Joe . . . give me a hand here.”  Hoss waved him toward the dining room, where he was gathering chairs two at a time, hooking one on each arm.  “Pa wants these outside on the porch.”  Grinning, he smacked his lips together.  “Sure is gonna be a hoopla, little brother.  I can’t remember the last time we had such a prime party.”

“You just can’t wait to taste that pig Hop-Sing has been roasting all day,” Joe countered.  He took one chair to Hoss’s two, carrying it carefully through the front door, mindful not to muss his well-groomed clothing.  Outside Ben was directing hands at arranging long tables destined for food and socializing, away from the barn.  Checkered tablecloths fluttered in a light breeze and lanterns dangled between poles strung with colorful streamers.  Someone had even tied batches of green ribbon to each end of the main hitching post. 

Joe set his chair next to Hoss’s.  “Where’s Adam?”

“He rode into town to meet Dean, his Missus and Miss Elizabeth.  Hey, that reminds me--”  Hoss snapped his fingers.  “Jed Brooks said he saw your old pal, um . . . what’s his name . . . ”  Hoss cupped his hands over his eyes mimicking glasses.  “You know . . . the Boone kid.”

“Henry?  Henry Boone?”  Joe shook his head, stunned.  “He moved to St. Louis six years ago when his father took that banking job.”

“Yeah, I know.  Well apparently he’s back visiting or sumthin’.  I told Jed to let him know about the shindig tonight.  Figured you’d wanna see him, since you, he and Kyle Gordon were pretty close.”  Hoss slapped Joe on the back.  “There’s plenty of roast pig for all of us.”

Joe chuckled as his brother moved away.  The last thing he was thinking about was pig.  Even so, he paused, taking a moment to savor the heady smell.  The whole yard was bathed in the odor of hickory-smoked pork and brown sugar.  No wonder Hoss was practically salivating.

As he walked inside to grab another chair, Joe thought how good it would be to see Henry Boone again.  His friend had always been on the quiet side, a bit overly studious, destined to follow his bookish father into banking, but they’d had some good times--he, Henry and Kyle.  Joe still palled around with Kyle, his closest friend from childhood, but their encounters had grown less frequent as his friendship with Shey took center stage.  Despite Joe’s insistence that Shey had changed, Kyle remained uncomfortable around him.  Joe hated that bit of awkwardness, wishing they could get along.  Adam had even commented on it, telling him he was excluding old-standing friends in favor of Shey.

“Then I guess I’ll have to get new friends,” Joe had snapped heatedly.  “People who aren’t afraid to admit that someone can change.  Who are willing to give second chances.”

Adam had looked disgusted.  “Shey Cutter’s blinded you to everything,” he insisted.  “If it goes against Cutter or the Circle C you won’t even give it the light of day--or anyone else the light of day, for that matter.  You’re like a wolf with that rooster, Joe.  Let anyone say anything a bit off color about your cocky friend and you grow fangs.”

He’d gotten hot under the collar, ready to butt heads with Adam, but his father had intervened. What had started as a frank discussion had quickly degenerated into an ugly argument.  Joe had half-expected Adam to instruct him to keep Shey away from tonight’s party, but his father had cleared his throat, politely asking if he’d been sure to invite Shey.

With a grin for the remembered look on Adam’s face, Joe carried another chair outside.  His father had always been the diplomat, smoothing the way between them when Joe’s friendship with Shey pushed them to opposite corners.  They’d gotten past Lorna David, but Adam just couldn’t silence his instinctive distrust of the one-time town bully. 

And that was just too damn bad in Joe’s book.  Because like it or not, Shey Cutter was around to stay. 

+++++ 

The party was in full swing when Adam arrived with Malcolm Dean Rocherty, his wife Rose, and her sister Elizabeth Stengler.  Joe didn’t even know half of the people who crowded into the yard.  There were businessmen in smartly tailored vests and jackets; regal-looking women with sweeping up-dos and flowing gowns.  Joe felt a little out of place in his crisp white shirt, thinking belatedly of the Sunday best blue suit he’d considered wearing. It was too late now.  Besides, most of the ranch hands were in shirtsleeves, including Hoss and Lucas Flint, Shey’s soon-to-be new foreman.  He’d yet to see a sign of his brash friend, but the evening was still young.  Playing dutiful host, Joe made his way to Dean and his group, pausing to cordially greet the newspaper editor and the two women.  Dean was instantly thronged by men who’d come from as far away as San Francisco to meet him.

Stepping aside, Adam grinned at Joe.  “It’s like this whereever he goes.  I think Rose gets tired of it."

Joe arched a brow, surprised.  “She doesn’t like all of the attention?”

“After a while I guess it gets old.”  Adam crossed his arms over his chest, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Joe, watching as well-to-do men and women eagerly waited for their chance to meet Dean. 

Joe thought he was somewhat unimposing, a plain-faced man, with thinning brown hair and light blue eyes.  Yet it was apparent when he spoke, people hung on his every word, his voice velvety  and smooth, like good bourbon.  His wife was small, a little on the plump side, with a bun of black hair.  She conducted herself in a refined manner, graciously greeting the many town women and visiting gentry who clustered around her. 

Her sister Elizabeth was another matter--too haughty for Joe’s taste, with blue-green eyes and cinnamon-colored hair, pinned tonight in a bounty of dangling curls.  She wore a snug fitting green gown trimmed in black, an outfit that made the most of her trim waist, bountiful curves and smoky coloring.  There was no question she was a looker, but her demeanor was icy.  Joe had met her for the first time over dinner the previous evening, and had come away with a distinctly unfavorable opinion. Close to Adam’s age, she’d been widowed six years, her former husband a Baltimore-based shipping tycoon.  From what little Adam had told them, Joe knew the man had been a good twenty years her elder and had died of consumption. Elizabeth herself was opinionated, curt and cold, a combination that left little room for complimentary impressions.  Even now Joe could see a few eager men had been turned aside by a cutting glance from her cold aqua eyes.

He was about to say something to Adam when he caught a glimpse of Callie Garrett.  Joe’s whole face lit up.  “Callie!”  He was at her side in a few steps, giving her a quick peck on the cheek in greeting.  His expression dimmed slightly when he got a good look at her date.  The smile stayed on his face but it wasn’t as bright.  “How are you doing, Cliff?”

Cliff Thompson nodded and shook the hand Joe offered.  “Nice party, Joe.  I hear fiddle music’s goin’ be starting soon.”

“Then I’m going to need some punch.”  Callie smiled sweetly at her date.  “Cliff, would you mind?”

“Course not.” 

As he moved away to do her bidding, she looked back at Joe.  “Don’t say it.”

He tried to act affronted but failed.  “What?”

“Joe Cartwright, you are one shade too transparent.  Cliff cares about me.”  She hooked her hand through his arm.  Together they walked away from the knot of people gathered around Dean and his wife. Couples and small groups streamed past them, laughing, chatting gaily.  The clang of horseshoes came from the distance, and the smell of roast pig mingled with baked apple pie and fresh cider, hung heavily on the air.  Callie’s head was bowed, her chestnut hair tumbled around her face.  Joe had the feeling if he could see her expression, there’d be misery in her eyes. 

“I know what you’re thinking,” she said.  “But Cliff’s different.  He’s passionate about things.”

Joe mused that quietly for a minute, content to walk companionably at her side.  “Shey’s one of the most passionate people I’ve ever met in my life.”

“Maybe about most things, but you’ve never kissed him.”

Joe chuckled.  “We’re close, Callie, but we’re not that close.”

She raised her head.  “I care about him, Joe.  I think I might even still love him, but he’s got his heart shut off and I can’t live like that.  I can’t wait around for the day when he realizes that not every woman is going to run off with some two-bit gambler.  He thinks any woman he gets seriously involved with is going to desert him just like his Ma deserted his Pa.”

“I know that, Callie.”

“Well he’s an idiot, and I’m tired of waiting around for him.  Besides . . .”  She sniffled, raising her nose in the air.  Joe couldn’t tell if she was hurt or annoyed.  “ . . . he sure hasn’t been sitting around mooning because I’m with Cliff.  Lily Krenshaw told me he’s cozied up to nearly every saloon girl at the Silver Dollar.”

“Aw, Callie, you should know better than to listen to Lily.  She lives to spread gossip, most of it invented in her head.”

She stopped walking, turning to face him directly.  “Are you telling me it isn’t true?”

Joe swallowed, put on the spot.  Shey had been doing his fair share of philandering, a little too much even for Joe, but he didn’t want to get caught between his friend and the girl Shey had once professed to love.  If he even could love, which was a valid point on Callie’s part. 

Joe had recently encountered a surprisingly compassionate side to Shey he hadn’t known existed. When he’d been trapped near Blue Rock, his leg sliced open and bleeding, Shey had done more than give physical aid.  He’d fussed over Joe, even cradling him close when the near-lethal combination of cold, wind, rain, and pain had threatened to topple him into oblivion.  He’d needed that closeness and compassion, never expecting to find it buried in his crass friend.  If Callie would only be patient, instead of trying to push Shey into marriage before he was ready, maybe she’d find what she needed too.

Joe cleared his throat, shuffling his feet.  “Uh, Callie . . .”

“Here you are, Callie.”  Thankfully Cliff Thompson chose that moment to return with a glass of punch.  He passed it to his date, smiling down at her, clearly unaware she’d been discussing the man she really loved.  Joe almost felt bad for Thompson being compared to Shey, a larger-than-life person he’d never measure up to.

“You two enjoy yourselves.  I gotta go see to the other guests.”  He flashed a quick smile, anxious to be away before Callie could corner him again.  Somewhere in the background, fiddles and strings had struck up a lively tune.  The group around Dean Rocherty was slowly dispersing.  Joe rounded the corner of the bunkhouse and ran smack into a group of old friends seated at one of the tables, Kyle Gordon among them.

“Hey, Joe!”  Kyle flagged him over, clearly enjoying himself.  While the punch was clean, the cider was spiked.  All five men at the table had mugs of the whiskey-laced brew in their hands.  In addition to Kyle, Joe saw Jim Greer, Able Harrison, Thad Dunkin, and Curtis Connelly, all friends he’d grown up with.  Someone pushed a fresh mug into his hand.

Grinning, he slid into a seat at the picnic bench, joining their fun. “This looks like a group up to no good.”

Thad Dunkin took a swig of cider.  “Ah, we were jest ribbin’ Kyle about that crush he had on Miss Beckinwade.  You remember her, Joe?  She used to teach us reading and ‘rithmatic our last year in the schoolhouse.”

Joe chuckled as the memory came back. Kyle had had it bad for the schoolmarm, picking her wildflowers, bringing her apples, even trying to write love poetry.  “I remember he used to get all tongue-tied whenever she called on him.  Remember?”  The rest of the group was guffawing now, Kyle included.  “He could barely spit out her name.  Y-yes, M-M-Miss Bec-Becki-Beckinwade.”  Joe did a passable imitation of a love-struck teenager trying to answer a question.  All six men were in stitches, howling over the episode, made funnier by remembered companionship and a healthy dose of alcohol. 

“You gotta admit,” Kyle interjected.  “She was kind of a looker.”

“Kyle, she had a nose like a horse,” Able Harrison shot back.

“Yeah but she had all that blonde hair.”

“It was brown.”

“Like mud,” Jim Greer inserted.

“Really old, ugly mud,” Curtis Connelly added and the group busted into another round of laughter.

“There ain’t no such thing as ugly mud,” Kyle countered when they’d quieted somewhat.

“So you think mud is pretty?”  Thad shook his head.  “Joe, tell him he’s been pushing cattle too long.  No wonder he got all doe-eyed around that schoolmarm.”

“How’s the cider, Cartwright?” a new voice asked. 

Joe would have known the slightly snide inflection of his cavalier friend’s voice anywhere.  He spun in his seat, a grin breaking across his face.  “Glad you finally made it, Shey.  Sit down and have a drink with us.”

Shey cocked his head, looking at the other men at the table.  He’d dressed a cut above ranch clothes tonight, wearing black pants, a tan shirt and black vest.  He’d even added a black string tie to match his hat, and his blond hair was neatly combed, if considered a trifle too long by polite society.  His stance reflected inbred cockiness, an arrogance that wasn’t lost on the rest of Joe’s friends.  “Maybe I’ll jest go find my pal, Adam,” he said with a pointed grin for Joe.

“Shut up, Boss, and sit down.  I’ll get you a cider.”

Joe moved away before anyone could protest.  He returned a moment later with a full mug, only then aware of the change that had fallen over the group.  Shey still stood, closer now, but as irritatingly cocky as ever.  The rest of the group had quieted, Thad and Curtis making a half-hearted attempt at mumbled conversation, all of them looking anywhere but at Shey.  Abruptly understanding what had happened, Joe felt a prickly surge of anger.

“Here, Shey.”  He passed his friend the mug.  It rankled him to realize Shey was making a point of exuding rattlesnake arrogance, but more to realize why.  He snatched his own mug from the table, trying to silence his rising temper.  So Kyle and his friends still saw Shey as the town bully?  It was time they got over it.  He was quickly growing tired of old animosities and people who harbored them.  “We were just talking about Miss Beckinwade,” he said a little too tightly.  “You remember her, Shey?”

“Sure do.” Shey took a swallow of cider, never taking his eyes from the group.  “I remember Gordon pined for her right fierce.  Wrote her some love poetry, my brother Chance and I found mighty amusin’.”

Joe closed his eyes.  “Shey, don’t do this.”

“I remember we sorta left it lyin’ where she could find it.  After we snatched it from Gordon, that is.”

Kyle’s head was lowered, his hand clenched tightly around his mug.  The levity of only moments before had turned into something ugly and somber.  “You mean after you and Chance beat it out of me.”

Joe’s stomach knotted.  “Let’s forget this, huh?”

“What’s the matter, Cartwright?”  Shey’s eyes slid to the side.  “My brand of reminiscin’ not rightly up your alley?  Guess it feels like the wolf jest entered the rabbit den.”

“More like the snake,” Thad muttered.

Shey looked at the other man, his smile barbed.  “I seem to recall you and yer friends catchin’ me behind the schoolhouse after I left that love note for Miss Beckinwade to find.  Made a right fool out of Gordon, and you cracked two of my ribs for it.”

Thad’s glance smoldered with fire.  “I ain’t the only one who was there, Cutter.”  His eyes flashed to Joe’s face . . . daring, challenging.  “Joe was too.  He threw you more punches than all of us combined.”

Joe held his breath, uncertain if he wanted to rattle Thad or throttle Shey.  Mixing old friends and new was like mixing oil and vinegar.  Shey Cutter just naturally brought out the worst in people and there was nothing Joe could do about it.  If tonight’s party ended in a fistfight his father would skin him alive, and Adam . . .

He swallowed.  Hell, he didn’t even want to think what Adam would do if Shey ruined his painstakingly planned gala.

Shey titled his glass, taking a long moment to look inside.  By biding his time, Joe knew he was sliding into foulmouthed bully mode.  “You know--Thaddeus,” Shey smiled pointedly at the other man.  “I don’t hold none of that against Joe.  See, the difference between you and Cartwright is you’re still a piss-for-brains lunkhead--”

“Shey, I will kill you if you ruin this party,” Joe muttered from the corner of his mouth.

“--but--and this is your only redeeming feature, coon’s ass-end and all--”  Shey took a swallow of cider and slammed the mug on the table.  “You got a right fine taste in friends.  Least ways one of them anyway, so I guess you ain’t that bad.”  Grinning brashly, he slung his arm around Joe’s neck.  At the table, Thad Dunkin blinked, trying to decide if he’d been insulted or complimented. 

Still hanging on Joe, Shey laughed.  “Did you really think I was gonna ruin your fancy shindig, Joseph?”

Relieved, Joe blew out a pent up breath and hung his head.  “I should just kill you anyway.”

“You’d miss me too much, Cartwright.”  Shey gave a backhanded wave to the group at the table.  “See ya, gents.  I gotta borrow my pal, Joe.”  Still grinning, he steered Joe away from the bunkhouse.

Relaxing enough to appreciate how his frustratingly cavalier friend had diffused the situation, Joe laughed. At the corral fence, Shey released him and pulled himself onto the top rail.  His smile thinned to an amused glimmer.  “I really kinda mess things up with your other friends, huh?”

“Shey, don’t be an idiot.”

“You know it’s true.”

“I don’t care if it is.  Kyle, Thad and the others, they’re great guys, but . . .”

Shey arched a brow.  “Yeah?”

Joe shrugged.  Climbing onto the fence beside Shey, he rested his cider against his thigh.  “It’s not the same.  Let’s just forget it, huh?  We didn’t come here to discuss Miss Beckinwade or Kyle’s crush on her.  Why don’t we go find a couple of single gals and enjoy the night?”

“You’re reprehensible, Cartwright.  Always got yer mind on one thing.”  The grin came back, a little wider this time.  He nodded into the distance.  “Saw Callie with Cliff Thompson when I rode up.  Never noticed before, but the man’s got a face like a weasel, pinched and stuffy. Looks like he drug out his Sunday best, got himself all pleated and perfumed like some big city dandy.  Callie don’t like that sort.”

Joe laughed.  “What sort does she like, Boss?”

Shey scowled.  “You’re tryin’ me, Cartwright.”

“Ah, there you are!”  Ben Cartwright materialized from the crowed, heading toward them, a broad smile on his face.  “Shey, Mr. Rocherty and his wife wanted to meet you.”

Shey climbed down off the fence, doing his best to look presentable for Ben.  Joe knew he didn’t want to meet the newspaper editor, but such obligations went hand-in-hand with being the second largest landholder in Nevada.  Joe followed on his heels as Ben cleared the way to a small group of people.  Introductions were made and Shey responded graciously, as much for Ben's sake as Adam’s, who stood nearby.  Rocherty made a few comments about the Circle C and Shey responded dutifully if a bit blandly. 

Joe was just getting ready to steer him off in the direction of some food--Shey behaving himself for more than a few minutes was tempting fate--when Rocherty looked behind him.  “Elizabeth, I’d like you to meet the other rancher, Mr. Cartwright told us about--Mr. Shey Cutter, owner of the Circle C.”  As he spoke, Rocherty guided a regal red-haired woman to the forefront of the crowd. “My sister-in-law, Mrs. Elizabeth Stengler of Baltimore, Mr. Cutter.”

For once in his life Shey appeared caught off guard.  Momentary surprise flickered through his gold-flecked eyes and he grinned.  “We’ve met.”

Rocherty looked startled.  He rounded on his sister-in-law.  “Elizabeth?”

Her smile was tart, a trace of vinegar in her eyes.  “This is the buffoon I told you about, Dean.  The one who so graciously helped me into the mud.”

“I didn’t realize you were married,” Shey inserted languidly.

“Widowed, Mr. Cutter, and that hardly makes a difference.”

“This is reprehensible,” Dean sputtered.  He seemed at a loss over how to proceed.  “To think a man could behave so crudely and be embraced as a friend.  Adam . . . Ben . . . this man made a mockery of my sister-in-law.”

“Ah, don’t go gettin’ so riled,” Shey said, clearly disgusted. “She ain’t the first woman ever dropped on her keister for behavin’ like some hoity-toity know-it-all.  If’n she listened to me in the first place, that mare wouldna bolted.”

Uncertain what all the commotion was about, Adam forced a placating smile.  “Dean, I don’t know what happened, but I can assure you it was probably the result of a misunderstanding.  Shey Cutter is one of the leading citizens of Virginia City and a close friend of my brother--”

“Joseph, why don’t you and Shey get something to eat,” Ben suggested with a meaningful jerk of his head. 

“Right, Pa.”  Joe snagged his friend by the shirtsleeve, hauling him away before Shey could cause more damage.  His cocky friend tipped his hat to Elizabeth even as he was pulled along in Joe’s grip.

“Did you hear that?” he asked.  “Your brother callin’ me one of the leading citizens of Virginia City.  I bet ‘ole Adam’s wishin’ he had a bar of soap to wash his mouth out after that one.”

“Shey, what did you do that woman?”  Joe whispered fiercely.

“Nuthin’ much.”  Shey tugged free of his hold.  Together they walked toward the rear of the house where Hop Sing and Hoss had set up the spit for the pig roast.  “She got her buggy bogged down near Sable Creek, and didn’t wanna take any advice about how to get outta there.  I let her struggle for a while . . . she mouthed off at me . . . the fool mare bolted like I knew it would, and--”

“--she fell in the mud?”

Shey stopped walking.  “What kind of gent would I be if I let a woman like that fall in the mud?”

“You caught her?”  Joe asked, more than a little surprised.

“Damn right I did.  Then I dumped her on her hind end.”  Shey grinned and started walking again.

Joe hesitated, torn between disbelief and amusement.  When Shey glanced over his shoulder and cocked an eyebrow, Joe burst out laughing.  He sprinted to catch up, hobbling a little on his bad leg.  “You didn’t really?”

“I did.  The prim thing was all high and mighty, mouthin’ on about eastern this and blueblooded that.  Hell, Joe, she called me a hillbilly.”

Joe clamped a hand on his friend’s shoulder, physically having to hold himself up, he was laughing so hard.  “A hillbilly? Oooooh, that’s priceless!”

“Stop howlin’, Cartwright.  It ain’t that funny.”  Shey grinned in concession.  “All right, maybe a tad.  When she finally got back in the buggy, all mussed and drippin’ with mud, I sorta kissed her.”

Joe stopped laughing.  Instantly.  “You what?”

“I figured it was the only chance I’d ever have, kissin’ a right upstandin’ woman like that.  You know--all high falutin’ manners and tea socials.  So I jest sorta reached in there and planted one on her.”

“Let me guess.”  Joe straightened.  “She cracked you across the face?”

“No, Cartwright, she crawled into bed with me.  What the hell do you think she did?”  He started walking again.  “Damn, I’m hungry.  That pig smells good.”

Joe hurried to catch up.  “So how was it?  The kiss I mean?”

Shey shot him a glance from the corner of his eye.  “Right nice.  You should give it a try sometime.  Ooops!--forgot--you already got yerself a prim eastern bluebell.  If memory serves right, you done a hell of a lot more than kiss.  Can we eat now?”

Too used to his friend’s off color remarks to be angry, Joe shook his head in amused resignation.  “Okay, Shey.  We can eat now.”

+++++

Joe yawned and crawled from bed.  He’d overslept by a good two hours, but Ben had granted everyone the luxury after the party went so late last night.  There was a slight buzzing in his head, a reminder he probably should have stopped drinking sometime before the last few ciders. 

It had turned out to be an enjoyable evening with dancing, laughing and horseshoe playing.  He and Shey had beaten Kyle Gordon and Thad Dunkin five games out of seven, then lost the next three to Ben and Lucas Flint.  Afterward he and Shey had found a number of willing ladies to dance with and they’d spent the remainder of the evening away from the more subdued groups who hovered around Dean Rocherty and his wife.  Joe wasn’t sure when the party finally ended, he just knew that even after the last guest had left, he, Shey and Hoss had sat around on the front porch, joking and talking until after midnight.

Joe was sorry Henry Boone hadn’t shown up, but he was beginning to think that Jed Brooks had been mistaken about whom he’d seen in town.  If Henry were around, he surely would have come looking for Joe. 

Bleary-eyed he went through the motions of washing and dressing, wincing at the tenderness in his bad leg.  The wound had yet to heal completely and he’d obviously overdone things last night.  Still, it had been worth the fun, even if it left him feeling stiff and battered this morning.  Limping slightly, he meandered downstairs to the welcome smell of coffee and bacon.  His father and brothers, already at the breakfast table, looked as low-keyed and tired as he felt.  Giving in to another yawn, Joe dropped into a chair at the table and reached for the coffeepot.  “This looks like a lively group.”

“You ain’t exactly doin’ cartwheels yourself, little brother.”  Hoss propped an elbow on the table and dropped his chin in his hand.  “I must be getting old or sumethin’.  I’m durn near too tired to eat.”

“Hoss.”  Ben arched a brow at the offending elbow and it was quickly removed.  His attention shifted to Joe.  “You’re limping, Joseph.  Is your leg bothering you?”

“It’s okay, Pa.  A little too much dancing, I guess.”  Joe swallowed a mouthful of coffee, pleased to note it lessened the annoying buzzing in his head, if not the ache in his leg.  Buttery light streamed through the window onto the table, a little too bright, but pleasantly warm. He made a mental note not to let Hoss spike the cider in the future.  His large brother had a higher tolerance for alcohol than most and tended to overlook that when lacing whiskey.

Rubbing his eyes, Joe looked at Adam.  His oldest brother, unlike the rest of them, appeared marginally awake.  No doubt he’d remained with Dean’s group throughout the evening, wholly refined, sipping punch with an occasional cider to offset the boredom.  Then again, Adam, thrived on intellectual discussions and probably found Dean’s company a refreshing change of pace.  “So what did Dean think of the party?” he asked.  “After all that preparation, I hope it measured up.”

Hunched over his plate, Adam nodded.  He speared a forkful of pan-fired potatoes and followed them with a gulp of black coffee.  “It gave him a good chance to meet everyone . . . really introduce him to the town.  I think he was surprised we went to so much trouble.”

Joe chuckled.  “I was just grateful for the party.  Any excuse works, you know.”

Ben looked at his youngest son.  “You and Shey had a good time.”

“Shey and I always have a good time.”  Feeling a little better, Joe heaped eggs, potatoes and bacon onto his plate.  Still hot, steam rose from the food and warmed his face.  The day was starting to shape up, now that last night’s fog was clearing from his head.  “Did you see Callie Garrett with Cliff Thompson?  That’s a mismatch if I ever saw one.”

Hoss raised his head, startled.  “Cliff’s a good guy,” he volunteered.

“Better than Cutter,” Adam mumbled.  “At least Cliff won’t dump Callie in the mud.”

Remembering Shey’s story of the previous night, Joe laughed.  He was suddenly feeling too good to be annoyed by Adam’s attempted dig at Shey.  “Hey, did you know Mrs. Stengler actually called Shey a hillbilly?”

Hoss guffawed.  “Oh, Lordy, that’s plum!  I wish I could’ve seen the look on that rooster’s face.”

Adam scowled.  “He didn’t make a very favorable impression on her.”

“I guess not, getting dumped in the mud and all.” 

Hoss and Joe burst out laughing.  Seated at the head of the table, Ben looked quietly between the two.  “You think that’s funny, Joseph?”

Joe straightened. With effort, he bit silent his laughter and shook his head.  “No, Sir.”  Of course it was funny.  It was damn funny knowing Shey as he did, but he figured it probably wasn’t the wisest move to point out the humor to his father.  Across from him, Hoss looked away, pursing his lips to swallow back laughter.  Ben shot him a glare and he sobered quickly.

“Boys.”  Ben drew a breath for patience.  “I don’t think the lady in question found the situation very amusing.  Fortunately both she and Mr. Rocherty were dignified enough not to cause a scene last night.  I think it would be wise, however, and certainly appreciated, if Shey apologized.”

Joe blinked.  “Why are you looking at me, Pa?”

“He’s your friend,” Adam inserted.  

“Which is why I know he isn’t going to apologize.  And which is exactly why I’m not going to ask him about it.” 

Ben gathered his coffee cup and leaned back in his chair.  “You can ride over this morning after breakfast, Joseph.”

“Pa--”

“--or you can stay here and help clean up last night’s mess.  And then start on those repairs to the barn roof you should have done last week.”

Joe huffed out a sigh.  “Pa, that ain’t fair.  That’s blackmail.”

Ben grinned pleasantly.  “Yes, I know.”

Scowling, Joe went back to his breakfast.  The appeal had vanished, even the sun soaking through the window wasn't as pleasant anymore.  If everyone was so riled over a little thing like mud, imagine the reaction if anyone learned Shey had brazenly kissed Mrs. Stengler.  She’d obviously kept that bit of information to herself, or it would have come out by now. 

Resigned to doing his part, Joe nodded.  At least it was better than working on the barn.

+++++

Shey heaved a breath and flung the last sack of grain into his wagon.  He remembered a time a few short years ago when a late-night party meant he would have slept through most of the morning.  His father would have ranted about his laziness, but even lectures had rolled off his back with little effect in those days.  Now it was different.  The Circle C was his, and he was responsible for seeing everything ran efficiently and on time.  That meant if he couldn’t pull men off a brush job for a run to the general store, it was up to him to see that it got done.

Still feeling the effects of over indulging last night, Shey braced his arm against the wagon and hung his head.  Hoss Cartwright must have been the one who spiked the cider.  Had to be, the way his skull was clanging this morning.  He dragged a hand through his longish hair, settling his hat more comfortably on his head.  The brim felt like a steel band, growing tighter and tighter with every passing second.  He remembered palling with Joe, dancing with half a dozen girls and kissing Lily Krenshaw behind the Cartwright barn, but he didn’t remember riding home.

“Last time I ever touch cider Hoss Cartwright had his hands in,” he mumbled.  Dragging himself back into the store, Shey made his way to the counter.  His boots clunked against the plank boards, raising a raucous in his ears.  Wincing at the noise, he ground his teeth together and tried to concentrate.  The jarring wagon ride into town hadn’t helped his already jangled nerves, and lugging and loading supplies had set his stomach churning.  “You got my list, Sally?”  he asked the petite blonde behind the counter.  “I’ll sign off and be on my way.”

She flashed him a smile, entirely too chipper and pert.  Probably sipped punch all night and batted them blue eyes at Hoss.  There was no true commitment between them, but Sally Linden and Hoss Cartwright routinely spent social gatherings at each other’s side.  Shey vaguely recalled her cheering Hoss on when he and Joe had teamed against Hoss and Kyle Gordon in horseshoes. 

“Here you go.”  Sally passed him a sheet of paper.  He rubbed his eyes when the letters crammed together.  “You look a little off, Shey,” she observed sweetly. 

He shot her a glance, but the brimstone in his expression had no effect on her genuinely agreeable manner.  Just like Hoss, he thought sourly.  No wonder they’re so blasted suited fer each other.  Probably take a cattle stampede to rile either one of them into flinchin’.  “Just not awake yet,” he muttered.       

Sally was still smiling.  “I saw Callie at the Cartwright party last night.  She looked awfully pretty.”

Shey grunted.

“Didn’t you think so?”

When his eyes flashed to her face this time, her smile faltered.  “Didn’t notice,” Shey snapped.  He signed off on the paper and passed it back to her. “Tell your pa that should hold me for a spell, ‘cept that back order of wire.  I’ll check with him next week and see if he’s got any word on it.”

Sally’s head bobbed up and down in quick agreement.  “I didn’t mean anything by it Shey,” she offered hurriedly when he started to turn away.  “It’s just Callie’s a friend, and everyone in town was under the impression the two of you were on the path to getting wed.”

“A hillbilly like him?” 

Shey turned at the intrusion of the icy cool voice, surprised to see Elizabeth Stengler in the general store.  She stood just inside the doorway looking entirely too refined and cultured in a formfitting blue gown trimmed with extravagant whorls of navy lace.  Her hair was pinned at the back of her head, twisted into a fashionable upsweep beneath a small blue hat. 

Shey leaned into the counter.  “Well, if it ain’t the lady who don’t know how to handle mares.  Liz, ain’t it?”

Behind the counter, Sally gave a small gasp.  Shey chuckled and flecked a finger against his hat.  “Mizus Stengler,” he corrected, striding past her.    

Outside the sunlight struck his eyes, wedging a knife in his head.  He moved to the buckboard, lacking his usual light-footed agility and began to unfurl the tarp he’d attached to cover his supplies.  He heard footsteps behind him and glanced over his shoulder to find Elizabeth Stengler standing at the edge of the boardwalk.  “You’re becomin’ like a reccurrin’ dream . . . or maybe a nightmare.”  He flashed a thin smile, all he could manage with his head pounding the way it was.  “Don’t let me interfere with your shoppin’ none.  I know we don’t got all those fine silks and fancy do-dads you got back east, but us hillbillies get by.”

The hint of a smile flitted around Elizabeth’s lips.  “I’ve only met one hillbilly in Virginia City, Mr. Cutter.”

“Then you should know us backwoods folk ain’t formal.  Call me Shey.”

“I can think of a dozen other things I’d like to call you.”

Tugging down the tarp, Shey gave a low whistle.  “You can spar with the best of ‘em, huh?  Must have kept yer husband walkin’ circles ‘round you day and night.”  He threaded the tie downs through the rear of the wagon.  “Jest so you know, I’ve got a way of changin’ people’s opinions about me.”

“Like Joe Cartwright?”

“Ah, so you know about me and pal Joseph?”  Folding his arms across his chest, Shey leaned back against the wagon and angled his head to gaze up at her.  He had to admit she made a mighty fine sight standing on the boardwalk, looking more refined than any woman had the right.  She was pure siren to tempt a man’s soul, leading conquests willingly astray with one sultry glance of her aquamarine eyes.  Whereas Callie had turned his head with her youthfulness and vigor, this woman was like fine crystal and scented silk rolled into one.  Shey had the feeling that given the chance, he’d find something passionate and surprisingly feral tucked beneath that overly correct, icy exterior.   

“I got an earful last night about you and Joe Cartwright,” she explained patiently.  “About your past together, and how you went from town bully to respected landowner.”

Shey snorted.  “There ain’t no respect involved.  It’s called tolerance.  All these right-proper business folk and town merchants know which side their bread's buttered on.  Next to Ponderosa money, it’s the Circle C keeps Virginia City afloat.  I ain’t down-playing anyone else, jest sayin’ I know why people shake my hand, then mutter behind my back.”

“I think you’re doing yourself a disservice.”  Elizabeth stepped from the boardwalk onto the street, pausing at his side to survey the tarp-covered wagon.  She smelled of rosewater and lavender and some exotic scent he couldn’t quite place.  “Most people spoke very highly of you last night, Mr. Cutter.”

“Shey.”

She met his eyes.  “Shey.”

The concession made him feel slightly less defensive.  He supposed it was understandable a woman accustomed to society galas and eastern tearooms would naturally take objection to his rough-around-the edges manner.  He certainly hadn’t been on his best behavior yesterday.  “I probably shouldn’t have dropped you in the mud,” he conceded.

She raised a perfectly groomed eyebrow.  “Is that all you’re going to apologize for?”

He thought a moment then grinned. “You want me to apologize for kissin’ you?” Instantly, his streak of impulsive brashness returned.  “Sorry, no can do.  I was kinda hopin’ for  second shot at that one.”  He shifted to face her, the grin inching upward into something crooked and devilish.  “’Course yer brother-in-law would get all squawky about it, and you’d likely haul off and hit me again.  I ain’t overly fond of gettin’ my face cracked.”

Her smile surprised him.  “Maybe you wouldn’t.”  She held out her hand.  “Good day, Mr. Cutter.”

Caught off guard, Shey groped for something to say.  Had she really just insinuated what he thought she’d insinuated?  Bewildered, he closed his fingers over hers, felt the warm heat of her hand through her delicate blue glove.  She smiled thinly then collected her skirts and turned away, stepping back onto the boardwalk and into the general store.

Shey stood gaping stupidly.  Of course she hadn’t meant he should try to kiss her again.  She was just toying with him like fancy, bored women sometimes liked to do.  Eastern fillies had a way all their own.  Hadn’t he tried to warn Joe time and again about that she-witch Lorna David?  This one was no different, probably worse.  Most likely she was hoping he’d do something stupid and forward so she could make a fool of him for it.  Well . . . she was going to have one hell of a long wait.

Collecting the reins to the buckboard, Shey climbed into the seat.  “Giddup,” he told the workhorse.  The wagon lurched forward on its long trek back to the Circle C.  Distracted, Shey cast a parting glance over his shoulder. Elizabeth Stengler was nowhere in sight, but a thin man with a thatch of strawberry hair and glasses stood where his wagon had been. 

Shey narrowed his eyes, squinting.  From a distance he couldn’t be sure, but the man looked a little like Joe’s old friend, Henry Boone.

Shey blinked.

When he looked again, the man was gone.

+++++

“She did what?”  Joe was sure he’d heard wrong.  He watched as Shey wrestled a sack of grain off the rear of the wagon, heaved it over his shoulder, and carted it into the barn.  Too stunned to follow, he loitered at the buckboard, replaying the impossible conversation he’d just had with his cocksure friend.  He’d come hoping to maneuver Shey into a spot where he could diplomatically suggest an apology to Elizabeth Stengler was in order.  Now, not only had he discovered his friend had already apologized, but that the supposedly “affronted woman” had responded with a forward suggestion of her own.  He never would have guessed a proper society matron like Elizabeth Stengler had it in her.

“I’m tellin’ you, Cartwright,” Shey’s voice drifted from the interior of the barn.  “She wants me to kiss her again.”  He returned swiping a sleeve across his brow, grown sticky with sweat in the burgeoning heat of late morning.  He flashed Joe a blinding smile.  “My guess is all that hillbilly charm jest got to her.”

Joe wasn’t sure if he wanted to laugh or scoff.  “Shey, you’re no more a hillbilly than I’m a riverboat gambler.”  He leaned back against the corral fence, watching as his friend manhandled another sack of grain onto his shoulder.  Scowling, he pulled a tie-down free of the tarp and fiddled with the end.  “I guess she could just be lonely.  Adam says she’s been widowed six years, and her husband was a lot older.  Maybe there wasn’t a lot of romance in her marriage to begin with.”

“I was thinking more along the lines of heat,” Shey shouted back.

Joe paced into the barn, trailing the tie-down against his leg.  “That attitude right there,” he poked a finger at Shey, “is why no sensible woman of refinement is gonna hook up with you.  There’s a difference between romance and rolling around in the hay.”

Shey heaved the sack of grain into the corner where a sizeable pile had already formed.  “Cartwright, I can’t believe you walked in here empty handed.  I got a wagonload full of grain out there and no hands around to help.”  He gave another shove, manhandling the oversized sack onto the top of a pile stacked chest-deep.

With a sigh, Joe pulled off his jacket and rolled up his shirtsleeves.   “What I wanna know is how come I’m always the one helping you?”

Shey sent him a cocky smile.  “’Cause you jest can’t resist my natural charm.  And gettin’ back to what we were talkin’ about, I know the difference between romance and lust--lessen you’re talkin’ to Callie, that is.”

Outside, Joe heaved a sack of grain onto his shoulder.  “What does that mean?”

“Like she ain’t told you?”

“Told me what?”

Shey scowled.  “Come on, Cartwright . . . I know she’s been talkin’ to her girlfriends and a few others in town, sayin’ how I ain’t got a passionate bone in my body.”

Joe dropped the sack back onto the wagon.  “That’s not what she said, Shey.”

“Okay, then suppose you tell me what she did, ‘cause I know she talked to you.” Shey leaned against the buckboard, propping his arm on the side, his expression a mixture of challenge and seriousness. 

Joe felt like he’d just stepped into the mud bog at Sable Creek.  His loyalty was to Shey, not Callie, but he still felt trapped in the center.  Any discussion about Shey and his inability to commit to women was bound to end badly.  Sooner or later that conversation would boomerang back to Lincoln and Patricia Cutter and their failed marriage.  Joe could see the determination rising in Shey’s gold-flecked brown eyes and knew he was headed in that direction himself.  Trying to stave off the inevitable he held up a hand.  “What’s it matter?  I thought you were through with Callie anyway?”

“Damn straight I am.”  The answer came rapid-fire and lightning quick.  “If she wants to fawn all over rat-faced Cliff Thompson, let her.  He’s got more wind than a bull in green corn time.”

“Is that why you were kissing Louise Morton behind the barn last night?”

“Shows how much you know.  It was Lily Krenshaw.”

“Her too.  And from what I hear, one or three others.”

“What of it?”  Shey turned back to the buckboard, violently wrenching a sack from the top.  Rather than heave it over his shoulder he dropped it at his feet.  “You sayin’ I’m getting too reckless, Cartwright?  Not proper enough fer you?”

With effort, Joe bit back a retort.  It was obvious Shey was spoiling for a fight, but he couldn’t figure out why.  Between his growing philandering and an attitude that pushed the limits lately even for him, something was gnawing at him.  If Joe had a guess, he’d say that something had to do with Callie Garrett and her new relationship with Cliff Thompson.  Trying to stay calm, he wet his lips.  “I’m saying you’ve been going to a lot of trouble lately to make sure everyone in town knows you’ve still got what it takes to be resident bully.”

Shey’s lips thinned in a sinister smile.  “What’s the matter, Cartwright?  You’d rather pal with Kyle, Thad, and their gang?  Nice, safe friends who toe the line and keep their noses clean?  Maybe yer brother’s right about me.  Maybe I jest ain’t no good.”

Joe’s temper cracked.  “You’re being stupid.  And Adam never said that.”

“Close enough.”  Shey heaved the sack over his shoulder and stalked into the barn. 

Fuming, Joe sprinted behind him.  He didn’t understand how a harmless conversation about Elizabeth Stengler could degenerate into ugly observations about Shey’s less than savory attitude.  Last night they’d been closer than ever, joking, enjoying the party.  Now they were one step shy of physical violence.  “Shey.”  Joe shoved his friend in the middle of the back, forcing him to drop the sack and spin around.

“Lay off, Cartwright!”

“Not ‘till you face facts.  For weeks you’ve been tromping around with a burr under your saddle.  If you’ve got a problem with Callie seeing another man why don’t you do something about it?  She’s still here.  She hasn’t left town.”

“I told you I’m done with that gal.  Ain’t no way to hitch a swan and a coyote.  Keep yer Ponderosa nose outta it.”  He moved to pick up the sack, but Joe’s own temper had boiled over and was beyond repair.  Gripping Shey’s shoulder, he wheeled him around and shoved backward.  Hard.

There was something almost satisfying in the look on his friend’s face when he blundered into the nearest stall.  For a moment the anger surging between them was painfully familiar.  If Joe had stopped to ponder it he might have sickened at the sensation, but he was beyond caring.  Shey’s arrogance was part of his character, something he’d learned to accept, but this bitterness went beyond willfulness and conceit.  It was downright ugly.  

Anger flared in Shey’s eyes, but surprisingly he held his temper.  “I ain’t gonna tell you again, Cartwright.”  A finger jabbed in Joe’s direction.  “You’ve had yer say, now get outta here.  Scamper back to yer Pa and brothers, and Kyle and Thad while you’re at it.  I ain’t got no use for you no more.”

“Like you ain’t got no use for Callie?  You are one mule-headed, cantankerous sorry son-of-a-bitch, you know that, Cutter?”  He stooped and swept up his jacket, anger, hurt and betrayal tangling together.  Scamper back to . . . Kyle and Thad while you’re at it.  I ain’t got no use for you no more.  The words cut through him like barbed steel, bullet-cold and forge-hot combined. Acid churned in his stomach until his anger spiked corrosive and sharp.  “It’s a good thing Callie got out while she could, because you’re right--she would have left you eventually.  You’d drive anyone away.  Must be what your Pa did to your Ma.”

He didn’t know where the venom came from, only that it spewed like some ugly wound.  He and Shey had butted heads before, even traded blows since their lopsided friendship began, but this was different.  Joe turned from the barn, feeling like a line had been drawn . . . that he’d been the one to initiate it, crudely severing the unlikely connection they’d once shared. 

Before he’d taken two steps into the light, Shey plowed into him, driving him into the ground.  He grunted at the impact, rolling quickly to the side, but wasn’t swift enough to stop the snap of Shey’s fist against his cheek.  His head rang with the echoing crack of the blow.  Recovering, Joe gripped his friend by the shoulders, wedged his good leg between them and catapulted Shey over his head. He scrambled to his feet, spitting mad and ready to pummel the source of his frustration.  He took a swing at Shey and sent him reeling a second time.  The problem was they were too closely matched.  Every blow he landed on Shey was landed in return. 

Three minutes into the fight, Joe stood breathing heavily, his bad leg throbbing with pain.  Shey plowed into him, thrusting him back against the corral fence.  Somehow he mis-stepped and his leg buckled under him.  Shey’s weight carried him forward and the full force of his boot heel slammed into Joe’s thigh.  Joe felt flesh give as blood gushed to the surface, sticky and hot.  He clamped his teeth together, biting down hard. Both hands instinctively went to his leg, curling the wounded limb close to his chest.  He shifted away from the fence, somehow managed to wedge his shoulder against the wheel of the buckboard. 

“Cartwright, what’s wrong?”  Shey clawed his way to his feet, his brusque tone underscored by a thread of concern.   Disheveled, covered in dirt, he braced one hand on the fence.  His knuckles were scraped and raw, and an ugly bruise rose under the fringe of his long bangs.

“Nothing.”  Grimacing, Joe pulled himself upright.  He hobbled a moment, testing his leg, painfully aware of the blood soaking his pants.

“Nuthin’, hell, you’re bleedin’.  Let me help--”  Shey took a step forward.

“Don’t bother.”  Bitterness bled through in Joe’s voice.  He didn’t understand how his friend could shift gears so quickly when his own anger was still bone-raw.  Worse was the ugly sting of betrayal, something that cut far deeper than stubbornly locking horns.  “You ain’t got no use for me, remember?”

“Shit, Joe, quit being such a cantankerous ass and let me help you.  You need to tie off that wound ‘fore you ride back to the Ponderosa”

“I can handle it myself.”  He limped to the entrance of the barn and retrieved his jacket, then stooped to pick up his hat, knocked off in the fight.  Through it all, Shey watched with narrowed eyes, his expression a hostile mix of agitation and concern. 

Grim-faced, Joe walked to Cochise and gathered her