Larkspur by Dorothy Garlock

hopelessly in love with a woman who cared absolutely nothing for him and who ignored him as if he were a mere speck on the wall.
    Forsythe looked up and saw Lee standing in the doorway.
    “Come in. Help yourself to a drink.” He motioned to a sideboard that held a decanter and glasses.
    Lee downed the drink. He needed it. He was always uncomfortable with Gomer and Bruza. They were everything he wasn’t: big, rough and physically capable of taking care of themselves in almost any situation. Forsythe was impressed that Mark was a nephew of Robert E. Lee, but it meant nothing to these two. He could feel their contempt whenever he was with them.
    “Well,” Forsythe prompted, “what do you think of our little pigeon?”
    “She wasn’t the middle-aged spinster I expected.”
    “Older or younger?”
    “Younger. I’d guess she’s in her early twenties.”
    “Hummm . . .” Forsythe poured himself another drink. “Ugly as sin, I hope. Ugly ones are easier to manage.”
    “She’s no raving beauty, but not bad-looking. She’s got kind of silvery blond hair. At first I thought it was gray. She had it skinned up and under a hat. She’s medium height, slender, but not a weakling. I invited her to dinner. She turned down my invitation.”
    “Smart woman.” Mike smirked at Lee.
    Forsythe gave him an angry stare. Outwardly Mark Lee ignored the remark. Inwardly he seethed.
    “She appears to be a strong-minded woman.”
    “We’ll have to change that. Bring her to my office tomorrow. Do you have the papers ready?”
    “One paper is all that’s necessary. If she signs over her claim to Yarby Anderson’s estate, that’s all we need.”
    “What if she won’t sign?” Mike hated to be left out of the conversation.
    “She will,” Forsythe said confidently.
    “ ’Course, she will.” Mike’s laughter was harsh and out of place in the refinement of the room. “A little scare might help change her mind . . . fast.”
    “No rough stuff . . . yet.”
    Mark Lee poured himself another drink without being invited. Good Lord! Forsythe wouldn’t turn these two loose on a woman, would he? Lee had a feeling about Miss Kristin Anderson. She was not going to be as easy to manipulate as the colonel expected. As badly as he wanted this deal over and done with, he didn’t want to see a woman hurt.
     
    *  *  *
     
    It was mighty still, so still Buck could hear one aspen leaf caressing another. Once in a while he could hear a horse shift his feet in the corral. A bird made a slight inquiring noise. Nothing else broke the silence but the occasional whispering of birds in the aspens that sounded like a bunch of schoolgirls getting settled for the night. The moon was wide and shining just above the dark, somber spruce massed together north of the house.
    Buck Lenning sat on his porch and looked up at the stars—a million of them. He wondered if Little Owl had gotten back to her village and if Lantz and his fat friend had found their boots. They couldn’t have walked far without them. Buck chuckled. The fat man probably rode his horse to the outhouse—the lazy bastard!
    They’d hightail it to Forsythe the minute they got back to Big Timber and report his being away from the homestead. From now on he’d have to be more careful or they’d sneak in and take possession or burn his place down while he was away.
    Buck marked off with bent fingers the five weeks that had passed since the patrol had stopped for the night and he’d given the letter to the sergeant to mail. It would take the patrol a week to get to Helena, that is if nothing unforseen happened. Cleve Stark might have received the message by now, but a Federal marshal was not free to cut loose and come to a friend’s rescue on the spur of the moment.
    Looking back, Buck wished he had sent for Cleve before the body had been found and identified as Yarby’s.
    And there was that damn will. Who in hell would have thought that twenty years ago Yarby Anderson would have